The Panther and The Rose 2
by Difference-Equals-Normal
Summary: Briar Rose Stark is still quiet, not as shy, and not a flashy hero like her brother. She does have the mighty Black Panther by her side, so maybe she's got a shot...but when the storm comes to Earth, no one is spared from the rain. And this time, the stakes are higher than ever...it could cost somebody their life.
1. The Private War of Doctor Doom

Holy crap in Hell, I'm BACK! Can you believe it?! It feels so weird. Oh, yeah; you've probably noticed that the rating has gone up. Mostly that'll be due to language-Rose has a rather dirty mouth, when the moment's right. Plus, T'Challa may or may not (but definitely will) be more sneaky about gettin' some lovin', the big goof ball. Anyway...!

The Management of Chaotic Inc. wishes to advise readers that the creator of this (and the other) story does NOT own the rights to Marvel or any related properties. She is only responsible for her original characters and the occasional side plots, and the occasional appearance by characters lent by other authors. The Head of Creative Chaos also strongly warns that there will be strong words used, and maybe more if the Black Panther has his way.

* * *

The Private War of Doctor Doom

' _Dear Alenka,_

 _I'm sorry that I haven't written to you or Diego for a few days. As it turns out, moving into a foreign country's embassy is a lot more complicated that I realized—doubly so if it's the Wakandan embassy. The amount of security checks needed, even with T'Challa's help—yikes._

… _Okay, okay, you got me. You know me well enough to know that I'm still a bit put out with your "meddling" with my being. Believe me, it's really great that I don't exactly "die" now, I just wished you also did something about the pain I go through in the process; my time with the Odin-force wasn't at all fun. Plus the fact that you've never mentioned said meddling to me, at any point in time, kinda rankles a bit._

 _Getting past that, everything else has been pretty wild. For starters…'_

…That's the question, isn't it? What else can I write about?

So much has happened since the week before last, when the Avengers were sent (by accident or design, I still don't know) to Asgard and ended up saving everything and everyone from Loki—in fact, I'm surprised that none of us have me ourselves coming and going yet.

True, all that the others have to worry about were the usual petty small-time crooks, and sometimes a super-villain or two, and the odd emergency—but they handled it all with their usual ease. Tony had a few more things to be concerned about—an entire company to run, a team to keep in order, and other stuff…when he wasn't busy in trying to avoid the now-in-charge Director Hill: she was still pestering with the same old song and dance of superheroes registering with SHIELD.

As for me…I have my own share of problems, and none of them were all that pleasant.

For example, when T'Challa announced to his embassy staff that I was going to live there with him, it caused a few uproars. A majority of them were of the happy sort—happy enough to throw impromptu parties on a few occasions. Some of them I went to, and they were fun. The other side, however, were less than happy with me—an American girl—moving into the embassy. T'Challa, Chantè and those perfectly happy with me wouldn't exactly tell me what was wrong—they must have felt that I either couldn't handle all the negativity, or something else along those lines.

But the fact remains that T'Challa is their king. And so, with quiet unease, I was moved into the embassy…and an atmosphere of silent condescension that could choke an elephant herd, several times over. Yippee. It was just a good thing I was set up with a psychologist—otherwise this could be a lot more harrowing.

Thankfully my head shrink was as smart and perceptive as any, often heading off any moments where I was beginning to feel upset and overwhelmed. Actually, it was she that suggested that I write fake letters to people I had problems or issues with, but not send them. I had to admit that earlier on—as silly as the idea seemed, it actually felt good to get everything out of my head and onto paper. Apart from the times I got stuck.

She was also a bit brutal in the honesty department, but with the best intention. Her advice about not trying to please everyone was sound: if I did, I'd never get anywhere and I'd only make myself feel worse. Besides, there were more people that liked me than hated me, so why should the haters matter all that much in the first place?

My thoughts were interrupted by a fluffy tail being brushed against my face, and a tiny head butting up against my chin. An adorable little meow helped the shift the last of the mental cobwebs, and I was now looking at the small black ball of fur currently sitting on my lap, with a pair of the biggest and brightest orange-y yellow eyes looking back at me with an expression that could melt butter.

"Hey there, Salem," I smiled at the cat as I put down my pen and used both hands to gently scratch at his ears. "Where have you been this time?" All I got in reply was a series of trilling chirps and purrs.

Salem—the latest addition—is a black exotic short-hair cat. Somehow (And I still can't figure out how) Voltaire managed to get out one day, and came back three hours later with the tiny creature curled up on his back. And my giant dog made it damn well clear that he (at the least) intended to keep the cat around.

I was more than happy to have another pet, but T'Challa was very reluctant for some reason—which he wouldn't tell me about. I didn't need to worry though, not after watching my boyfriend being subjected to a double sad pouty look from Voltaire and the cat. My dog then cleverly added the most heart-breaking sounding whine, the sort that brought a tear to my eyes. Then the impossible happened.

The big, bad, all-mighty and powerful Black Panther caved, like a tonne of bricks.

After that I could only watch—in very badly concealed amusement—as T'Challa folded with wounded pride, only to be pinned to the ground by my puppy, who then licked at my boyfriend's face with such exuberance I swore that T'Challa might've actually drowned in dog drool. And the cherry on the humiliation cake, the cat then decided it wanted in on the fun, too.

It really was too bad that I didn't catch the event on video, because I really doubt that I'd ever see a big, tough man like T'Challa flinch and squeal as a little cat's tongue licked at his neck. It didn't help that Voltaire still had him pinned, so T'Challa couldn't fend off the cat…and it probably didn't help that I lost it and fell to the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter.

As for how Salem got his name—well, I really like Halloween and all things spooky, so T'Challa offered a few options that were related. Salem was one of them, and it kinda stuck.

And that was the event of how Salem became a part of our little family.

I did have to scoff to myself about T'Challa and his 'firm' decision of not letting Salem stay. It's not like Salem causes problems, though. While a lot of cats make it an almost deliberate point to destroy furniture and other things, or hog an entire bed, or even leave little 'presents' for their humans, Salem was the complete opposite…sort of.

He'd rather scratch at the giant climbing tower we got for him, he doesn't knock things off their perches (especially not the extremely valuable stuff, thank Heavens), and the only place he'll sleep is curled up against Voltaire—often times almost disappearing into his fur. How that happens, I don't know—it's a black cat against a white furred dog: how can you miss him?!

About the present thing—yeah, fine, Salem does have a habit of leaving us things from time to time, but they were things like pens, hair ties, or a sheet of paper, and all at times that either T'Challa and I needed them. A little weird but eh, whatever—I'm happy with it. Another bonus is that Salem knows how to use a human's toilet as his own toilet…okay, that last one did surprise us a bit. As well as make me ask why I seem to attract animals with human-like intelligence, which made T'Challa laugh. Still, it's one less mess for anyone to clean up!

If I ever needed some definitive proof that T'Challa was all talk about not having a cat (other than him) around, the sight of them playing together was it. From batting little paper balls across the desk to each other, to see them and Voltaire play wrestling with each other—Salem always comes on top of those bouts.

My absolute favorite sight of T'Challa and Salem was the time I walked into our bedroom after walking Voltaire, and seeing T'Challa sitting at his side of the desk, staring rather intently at something on his laptop. Whatever it was must be super serious; the little cue being his hands laced together against his mouth. The whole scene would have been a worry, if it wasn't for Salem perching on the back of his chair, both little paws clamped on my boyfriend's head to keep him in place while the cat groomed his hair.

How in the name of all things cute and cuddly did I not fall into a great big heap of squealing mess, I have no idea. I did have the bright idea to catch the moment on video, in case of future blue days. It was a good plan…up until T'Challa pinned me with a mild version of The Look from the corner of his eyes.

Whoops. Busted~!

"May I help you, Rose?" he asked in a deceptively neutral tone, but I knew him well enough to hear the undercurrent, and feel it send shivers of near-panic up my spine. My feet were frozen to the spot, like a deer caught in on-coming headlights…though the more appropriate metaphor would be like the vulnerable prey upon seeing the bigger, deadlier and hungrier predator.

As if sensing the fast approaching and quite inevitable doom, Salem gave my boyfriend's hair one last lick before leaping to the ground and bolting through the bedroom door to freedom and safety, closely followed by Voltaire. I tried to follow their examples, but sadly my speed is pretty damn dismal compared to the greased-lighting quick reflexes of the Black Panther. So instead of freedom, I was easily picked up and flung over my boyfriend's shoulder, where I was powerless to stop him from tickling my sides.

I was then tossed into the middle of the bed, pined by T'Challa's body and tickled even further into submission. It really didn't help me that my clothing consisted of a sports bra and pants, leaving my stomach and sides woefully unprotected against his assaults.

After a few minutes of listening to my shrieks of laughter and cries for him to stop, T'Challa showed mercy and sympathy for my poor aching sides, and watched in smugness as I struggled to get enough oxygen into my lungs between splutters of helpless laughter. "You are a big meanie." I finally managed to wheeze out as T'Challa propped his head up with his hand, the other draping itself over my stomach.

"So you say, my love." He grinned sweetly before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the tip of my nose. He didn't get too far away before my fingers curled into the material of his shirt, pulling him back down so that I could kiss him on the mouth.

Humming a soft warm sound, T'Challa pressed deeper as the hand that was draped over my stomach began to slowly slide up and down from the top of my hip to the bottom edge of my top; the sensations making my insides warm up pleasantly. Slowly rolling him onto his back, I settled on top as one of my hands curled under his head as the other slowly crept up the inside of his shirt. His entire body rumbled and shook with a deep moan, while his hands caressed the now highly sensitive skin of my sides and back.

All of this was almost enough to distract me…almost.

"So, I have a question for you, oh great and glorious Black Panther." I breathed out huskily when we parted for air. T'Challa gave a soft inquisitive humming sound as he continued to trail his fingers up and down the groove of my back.

"How come you didn't want Salem around?" From hot and turned on to puzzled, resigned and defeated in record time.

"You are never going to give up until I tell you, aren't you?" he asked flatly. I didn't answer verbally, but pulling my hands away to fold on top of his chest and rest my chin on top was a pretty good indicator that we weren't moving till I got my answers.

Seeing as he was beaten, T'Challa heaved a heavy sigh and finally coughed up the goods.

"It is not that I am against having another pet," He grumbled in an adorable way. "It is more that we would be setting ourselves up for ridicule by Clint, despite recent efforts to make him behave."

…Ah. So that's the root of the problem.

As awesome as a big brother figure that Hawkeye can be (occasionally), there have been times where he can be shockingly crude when it came to teasing people about their love life—doubly so when he thinks it's something absolutely hilarious. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to faze him the slightest if we threaten to do bodily harm to him, or have the Hulk do it for us—Clint can and will seize any moment for creating chaos, and will absolutely take a mile from an inch.

Having said that…yeah, I can see why T'Challa would feel that way about Salem. It was probably just as well that the other Avengers don't know about the cat, either. It may get back to Clint, and that moron has more than enough ammunition already.

A prime example would be when I told Tony that I was moving in with T'Challa at the embassy. As typical of any overprotective brother, Tony was very reluctant to let his only little sister out of his sight, let alone move in with another man. But after much interrogation and internal debating on his part—and puppy pouting on mine—Tony finally gave his blessing.

Unfortunately for me, Clint happened to be walking past and heard the whole thing—and now comes the inappropriate innuendos. The first few I was willing to let slide—which was the biggest mistake I could have ever made, because the fifth one ended up with him getting sucked punched in the stomach by me, zapped by Wasp's stingers when she found out about it, and smacked upside the head by my brother. Sadly, none of this taught Clint to mind his manners.

But the one person to teach him that lesson, it was someone none of us were expecting by a long shot.

* * *

It was the last day of August, when I was in my room deciding what clothes I was taking to the embassy. Clint was moseying nearby and stopped by my door, and began to make pleasant small talk…which inevitable dissolved into really dirty innuendos: the sort that I had no problem what so ever with killing him over.

Point in case, the last crack he made over stepped the boundary, so much that I was on my feet and fist ready at full power, only to be beaten to it by someone else. Once second I was glaring at an upright Hawkeye, the next he was down on his knees, both hands clutching at his head as he groaned in severe pain.

"I think that's enough out of you, Barton." A male voice commented. The pair of us looked up as the owner of the voice stepped into view—a tall man in a crisp dark suit, and a friendly expression in his otherwise neutral face.

Clint—probably still groggy from the sneak attack—was ready to retaliate, but once he got a better look at whoever the man was, he paused…and turned a very interesting shade of pale. I could only watch in stunned surprise as the usually fearless archer gaped like a goldfish, with no sound escaping him. What really surprised me was that, just by mere presence alone, this mysterious man had Hawkeye breaking out in a cold sweat.

"So would you care to repeat yourself, Barton?" The man inquired in a deadly yet somehow pleasant tone. "Because I don't think I heard that last crack about Miss Stark properly." Wow, if Clint wasn't scared before, he went straight past it to 'sheer blind pants wetting' panic mode. Something people have only ever heard about, but never saw…until now.

I witnessed the purple archer mimic a goldfish for a few more seconds then bolted so fast that I swear that there was a smoke trail left in his wake.

"I thought as much," The man remarked almost to himself before turning to me with a true friendly smile. "Are you okay, Miss Stark?"

' _Apart from mentally blown away be the fact that Hawkeye is freaking terrified of you? Yeah, just hey-ho, pip and dandy!'_ My inner self remarked, while my head nodded slowly on its own will.

"Just peachy, Mr…I-I didn't catch your name?"

"Phil Coulson." He immediately addressed himself, reaching inside the pocket of his suit jacket to pull out an official looking badge. Wait, isn't that a—

"I'm an agent of SHIELD." The man finished his introduction, confirming what I was just thinking. Well…this could be very interesting, or very painful.

"I guess it'd be pretty redundant to introduce myself then, since you already know my name." I remarked in my most casual sounding tone of voice, even though I was coming close to pooping myself in panic.

"Pretty much," Agent Coulson nodded in agreement. "Besides Nick Fury was thorough in describing you to me, right down to the cluster of freckles on the inside of your left leg that looks like a star." ….

I am going to kill Fury.

"Which brings us to the topic of why I'm here," Coulson continued. "Before he went underground, Fury asked me to keep an occasional eye on you, see how you're doing every now and then."

…Unbelievable! Fury actually had the nerve to set me with a baby-sitter!

' _Maybe so, but can I point out that your 'baby-sitter' just about scared the crap out of Hawkeye?'_

…

"In that case, how about we have a chat? Preferably about what it is that makes you so scary to Hawkeye?"

* * *

"Rose? Rose, are you all right?" The concerned voice of my loving boyfriend pulled me from my thoughts.

"Sorry," I apologized. "I was miles away." T'Challa merely raised his eyebrow at me, his face saying that he knew there was more and that I was holding out on him.

"I can see that," He replied, and then oh-so kindly expanded on that. "You're smirking again."

Ah, of course. It used to annoy the crap outta me that he could always tell what I was thinking—he finally coughed up the info when I nagged him about it. Turns out I start to smirk whenever I'm thinking of something hilarious or— _ahem_ —mature.

That's probably the reason why I never play any sort of card games against him.

"So?" T'Challa gently prodded as his fingers once again traced a path up and down my spine. If I didn't know any bet—hey, _hey!_

"Th-that's cheating." I protested weakly, despite my defenses starting to crumble under the deliciously pleasant trembles that my devious yet equally delicious boyfriend was causing.

"You started it." He retorted in a deep seductive voice. I could only manage a soft whimper as he rolled the both of us over, carefully pinning my body against the mattress with his larger frame and began to gently kiss at my neck.

' _Damn that man_.' I mentally grouse, but it was beginning to get pretty hard to focus when said man was doing such deviously wonderful job of keeping me distracted.

"Rose." T'Challa purred in a deeply seductive way that had all of my defenses just about falling down around my ears…which was the perfect moment time for him to drop the act and pull away, despite my near whimper/cry of protest. The crooked half-smirk and raised eyebrow were all he needed in order to say 'got ya, now spill'. You know, there are some times were I really hate this man.

Before I could lose my temper on him, T'Challa pressed his mouth against mine in a sweet, tender, head-reeling kiss. While I was distracted (Dear Lord, his tongue is brilliant), he rolled the both of us over again—onto our sides this time—and wrapped me tight in his arms, hugging me close to his body.

"Rose," He murmured softly as we pulled away for air. "Please tell me what you were thinking?"

"Grr, mmph," I half grumbled before finally relaxing against him, "If you must know—"

"I must, I must." …And he says he doesn't like _Blazing Saddles_? Failing to keep back a pleased smile, I told him that I was remembering the first moment I met Phil Coulson, and how it was nice to know that we had someone to keep Hawkeye in his place.

Now it was his turn to look disgruntled. When I first told him of what had happened after I got back to the embassy, T'Challa was very…I'm gonna go with concerned, but not quite to the 'clucky' point—yet. Despite Phil knowing oh-so many of Hawkeye's most embarrassing moments, T'Challa was hesitant to put any sort of trust in the agent…something I agreed on.

 _There's just something about him that makes you feel like you can trust him, but there's also something that sets off the heebie-jeebies a little_ , I had told him then. With that, we both agreed to be welcoming but cautious whenever we ran into Phil.

"Would you feel better if we had a contingency plan for dealing with Hawkeye ourselves?" I asked my conflicted boyfriend. And that's inspiration—and a serious giggle fit—hit me.

"I just remembered something," I snickered madly. "I still have that pony costume of his. And I joined the My Little Pony mailing list, so I know where all of the conventions will be." It took a few seconds for what I said to make sense, but even T'Challa was laughing as hard as I was at what that meant for the unsuspecting archer.

Later when I went for a shower, I did have to mentally remind myself that while Phil Coulson may be a SHIELD agent, and that Fury sent him, neither told me whether he agreed with Hill or not. Maybe I can talk to Quartermaine or Wu about what I should do.

* * *

 _Sept 12_ _th_ _, 20xx_

Somehow—between returning from Asgard till now—the Avengers ended up agreeing to a poker game with two members of the Fantastic Four: Johnny Storm and Ben Grimmes, aka The Human Torch and The Thing, respectively.

Sensing the potential for an energetic (read absolutely chaotic) evening; Tony decided that he'd head over to the Baxter Building to talk shop with Dr. Reed. Wasp also decided she'd tag along too, if only to gossip with Reed's wife, Susan Storm: aka The Invisible Woman.

It might just be me thinking this, but it also looked like Wasp was still trying to find someone to give her a sympathetic ear about the whole Ant Man quitting thing, especially after I told her to leave the matter alone. Hank quit, that's the end of it, so stop trying to flog a dead horse. Admittedly, there will be times where we will wish he was around, but we just have to adapt.

Yeah, I'm not really in Wasp's favorite books right now, since I took Hank's side and all. And that I compared her nagging about the issue to flogging a dead horse. To be fair, she gets cranky with anyone that takes Hank side in the matter.

Putting aside my supreme reluctance to put up with Wasp, I was still 'um-ing' and 'ah-ing' on whether to tag along with Tony and talk all things science with him and Reed, or to stick with the others. That's when the 'trying to be helpful' voice in my head reminded me that I probably wouldn't be allowed to play with the boys anyway, not if Clint has anything to say about it. Not that I'm a bad player—quite the opposite, actually. As Hawkeye, Quartermaine and a few other SHIELD agents found out, I was scary good.

On second thoughts, maybe I shouldn't play: the last time I played against Clint it ended up with him owning me somewhere in the thousands…which he is yet to pay me.

I mentioned this to T'Challa, who then gained a thoughtful look on his face…oh, no. No way! As much as I love T'Challa, and would willingly walk through fire for, there's no chance in Hell of me putting up with a whining Hawkeye—especially if he's going to end up owning me more money.

Although I could definitely take advantage of my boyfriend being busy, and double check that I have moved certain items of mine into the Wakandan embassy…hmm.

* * *

"You know, I somehow get the impression that you're in for an interesting evening." I casually remarked to T'Challa after we arrived at Avengers Mansion. He didn't say anything as the pair of us watched the Hulk, Johnny Storm and Ben Grimmes wrestle each other on the front lawn. And they weren't going easy on each other, either, if the flames were any indication.

Oh, yeah, I'm really glad that I'm not joining the game tonight, especially if it means not having to sit at the same table as Johnny Storm.

As far as superheroes went, he wasn't all that bad. As a regular male…he leaves something to be desired. To put it succinctly, the rare few times that I've made an appearance at the Baxter Building when the Fantastic Four were home, I've had to awkwardly put up with Johnny flirting with me—despite it being so painfully obvious that I was in no way interested.

I wonder how things will go now, since I'm dating a rather overprotective man.

Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I looked up and beyond the flailing limbs to spy Clint watching the chaos unfolding from the safety of the front door, with an expression that said he'd rather be anywhere but here right now.

"I'm starting to think Iron Man had the better idea this evening." He wryly commented to us as T'Challa escorted me past the mayhem to the front door.

"Maybe, but I'll take this over putting up with Janet," I replied. "Especially if all she is doing is complaining about Hank leaving or us taking his side." Hearing this, Clint dragged his attention away from the fight to look at me with a raised eyebrow.

"She's still at it, huh? Sheesh," He huffed in agitation. Strangely, that look then turned into a look of worry. "Out of curiosity, you don't see Jan as the type to be really, really petty, right?"

A bit of a random question, to be sure, but nevertheless, it was right on the tip of my tongue to say that she was already being petty—until a stray fireball exploded near our feet, causing two of us to yelp in fright and make T'Challa pull me behind his body for safety.

I'm not entirely sure if it was due to me yelping the loudest or from Hawkeye's yell to 'stop the damn fireworks!'—either one caught Johnny's attention. The second he realized that I was present, he was up onto his feet and extinguishing himself as he made a beeline for the front porch. T'Challa was almost bawled over when the flame-head positioned himself in front of me, his arm resting against the door and a flirtatious grin on his face.

' _Oh, boy, here we go!'_ I mentally gulped, my face twitching itself into an uncomfortable smile as Johnny began to greet me, totally ignoring (or not even noticing) the growing dark aura emanating from T'Challa.

Thankfully—before there was any sort of bloodshed—Clint reappeared and quickly clamped his hand against Johnny's mouth, just as Hulk and Ben walked over, the former chuckling darkly.

"Better hope he's got funeral insurance," Hulk grinned savagely to the rocky giant. "He's gonna need it."

"What, just for talkin' to Briar?" Ben asked in disbelief.

"Nope, for makin' eyes at Panther's girl." While the two giants had been discussing the matter between themselves, Clint had been talking sense into the protesting younger male.

"Don't. Whatever you're thinking, don't do it," The archer had warned. "There's to be no look-y, no touch-y, and definitely _no flirty_!" Johnny seemed too annoyed to pay any attention, but when he heard the Hulk's comment, the fire bug made a loud noise of disbelief.

With wide eyes, Johnny looked at me. Before I could gently break it to him, I almost jumped out of my skin when T'Challa slid his arm around my waist and pulled me against his side. I tilted my head up to give him a Look, but my vision turned dark when T'Challa placed a seemingly chaste (but really a blood-racing, toe-curling) kiss against my mouth.

It took me a few seconds to get my bearing after T'Challa pulled away, but I was able to see Johnny slump in defeat.

"Aw, how come it's always guys like him that get the girls?!" Johnny complained as a sympathetic Ben walked the poor boy inside. Hulk gave a hearty snort of laughter and clapped his hand on T'Challa's shoulder (almost sending the poor man into the ground) as he followed the tow of them inside.

Finally internally balanced out, I watched along with Clint as the three of them retreated further inside, then we looked at each other and finally at T'Challa—Clint even going so far as to slow-clap him. The devilish fiend that is my boyfriend simply smirked and playfully bowed at the praise. Then, with a proper chaste kiss to my cheek, T'Challa followed after them.

"Well, good to see that he's still got it." Hawkeye exhaled. I could only hum softly in response as I marveled at how intimidating my boyfriend can be sometimes…if not all the time.

"That reminds me," Clint added as we walked inside and closed the door. "I owe you an apology, for all the stuff I've been sayin' to you lately." Okay…? Not that I'm against an apology (especially from him, of all people) but I do wonder what—or who—brought this on.

"Thing is…when I heard you telling Tony that you were moving in with T'Challa," Hawkeye began in a sheepish tone, "It…well it reminded me of our conversation. When we were heading to the Norn Stone? Kinda made me think I had a hand in it, or something."

…Well that makes some sense, at least where Clint was concerned.

"Plus, even with Cap and Hulk around, and sometimes the others too…" The nervous hand scratching at the back of his head, and the matching tone of voice easily revealed what Clint was really getting at, and the revelation made my insides begin to wobble.

"Aww, you're going to miss me?" I finished for him. When he eventually nodded, I couldn't help myself but coo at his adorkable-ness and slung my arms around his waist and hugged tightly. "I'm gonna you, too, ya big goof," I admitted as his arms settled around my shoulder in return. "Maybe we can sleepover at each other's place some nights?" He gave a response that was half a grunt and half a chuckle, and pillowed his cheek on top of my head.

We stayed like that for another a few minutes before I felt Clint raise his head and look around. "No Voltaire tonight?"

"No, he's at the embassy with Salem." I answered automatically, before it hit me what I just revealed. Crap! The one thing I hoped to keep quiet, especially from Clint, of all people. I just hope he doesn't make a big deal out of it.

But I never expected what came next to happen at all.

"Salem? Of all the names to give a black cat, you choose Salem?!" He complained, pulling away to look down at me. "Seriously?!" My brain was too stumped to react, but I think Clint got the point and eased up on me.

"A couple of weeks ago, Voltaire just showed up here out of the blue, and made a beeline for your greenhouse," He explained. "I followed after him, and somehow he found a black cat in one of the bushes…kinda weird, even for your dog." No kidding. Well, I guess we now know where Voltaire found Salem. Now I had to find out how Salem even got into the greenhouse in the first place. Good thing T'Challa insisted that the cat get all of his shots.

"So…no teasing?" I hesitantly asked him, "No innuendos; gibes; taunting; taking the mick?" I wouldn't put it past him to sneak some more jabs at T'Challa and I, but all he did was shake his head in a firm 'no'.

"Nuh-uh," He answered vehemently. "There's no way I'm taking a shot as that little fur ball—not if it means facing Voltaire. Plus you've made it pretty obvious that you'll get me back with interest, now that you've got Phil on your side." It took a lot of self-control to not grin, let alone jump in joy, because hearing that Clint wouldn't be teasing us about the new addition to our family was just about the best news I could have gotten!

After getting his word that the others wouldn't get word about Salem—unless T'Challa and I said something first—I decided to bring up the subject of Phil Coulson, and how my darling boyfriend seems rather…unsure about him.

"Relax and give it time." Clint assured me. "Phil's a decent guy, not to mention one hell of a seasoned agent. Just let him and T'Challa test out the waters with each other—they'll be friendly enough to each other in time."

"Are you sure?" I asked doubtfully. Phil may set off my 'heebie jeebies' alarm, but he still seemed a nice enough person to be around. If not that, then at least he'll be decent enough to save you from any bad guys and not let them hurt you.

Clint gave me a flat look before heaving a heavy sigh of defeat. "If it bugs you that much, I'll take your man aside and have a chat with him." The grateful hug I gave him in response said everything I couldn't get into one word, much to his amusement. With arms wrapped around shoulders and waist, Clint and I slowly strolled down the hallway to where the game was going to start soon, when something in the back of my mind nudged itself into the forefront.

"By the way, why were you asking if Jan was the type to be petty?" I inquired. The relaxed looked on Clint's face dropped, and he stopped just before the entrance of the den. A furtive glance around to check for any eavesdroppers, he leaned into a little closer to me.

"A few days ago, Hank came over to pick up some of his things…and his new personal assistant was with him." His new—oh…oh, wow. Upon my raised eyebrows look, Clint carried on with his explanation. "It was just damn lucky that Wasp wasn't around. She'd really freak out on the new lady—especially since Hank seems _pretty_ into her. And she's pretty easy on the eyes."

Despite myself, I gave a sarcastic snort.

"Scoff all you want, but even Hulk's head was turned when he saw her." Clint gently reprimanded, and I have to admit that I was now interested. I honestly didn't think that the Hulk was even interested in the opposite gender….or about dating in general. So if the Hulk's head was swivelled, then this lady must be really something…oi vey.

"I'm gonna regret asking this…but what does she look like?" I asked him.

"Trust me: she's someone you definitely want to meet in person." Clint advised, and in a tone that brokered no argument. Well…all righty then. In the meantime, we agreed to keep this from Janet…at least, for as long as possible. Doubly so if it turns out this lady is as hot as Hawkeye claims.

After our private conversation ended, Clint went to go begin the game—even cheekily offering to cut me in. Tempting as the offer was, I had to politely decline. Giving a small shrug in response, Clint entered the den as a few of the boys called for him to get a move on. Left on my little lonesome in the hallway, I tried sorting out the load of gossip that was just dropped on me: Hank getting a new assistant—replacing Wasp, as it were. I can't tell if that's just an 'ow' or a serious slap to someone's face.

"Then again, with all the time she spends being an Avenger..." I reminded myself quietly.

' _Plus we're assuming that Clint's right about this new lady.'_ My inner self pointed out. All very true…still, seeing as I had made plans to go see Hank sometime soon, I'd see for myself about this 'new lady' and get to the bottom of it…and hope like crazy that Wasp really wasn't the petty type, or worse.

*.*.*.*

Upon entering my old bedroom, a part of me remarked as how little it had changed, even though there were fewer clothes in some drawers, from my wardrobe, and various knick-knacks from around the room—including the heirloom mirror.

After his first appearance, Phil came by another day and helpfully suggested that I take the mirror with me, for practical reasons. Since a scary amount of bad guys knew where a majority of Avengers lived, there was every chance of another break-in/invasion, which could either end badly or much worse. So—for the sake of my mind—I moved the mirror to the Wakandan embassy for safe keeping.

I smiled a little at the memory that brought up. When I told Chantè the history of that mirror, she took it upon herself to safeguard it until it was in a safe location within the embassy. And she took her job so seriously, it was almost like she was protecting the king. T'Challa noticed this as well, and only gave me a badly suppressed smile as we watched Chantè hover over the movers as they carried it into the bedroom.

Other than the mirror, there was very little of anything else that I wanted to take with me to my new home. Of course, before I even started the arduous task of deciding what goes and what stays, T'Challa and I came to the agreement that I would keep my old bedroom—just in case there came times when I was too tired to make it back to the embassy, something that Tony agreed on.

As I sat on the edge on my bed, I looked about the room. So hard to believe that only a few short months ago that I was—

BOOM!

The very room shook violently as an explosion rocked the mansion from somewhere downstairs. Before my mind could catch up, I had bolted out of my bedroom, leaping down the stairs three steps at a time. I hit the landing just as green lasers began shooting around me, and it was only from the amount of reaction time drills T'Challa plied on me that allowed me to hit the deck as fast as I did.

"Now what's going on?" I complained to myself as more weapon fire erupted around me. I just happened to be wishing for some sort of help, when fireballs flew at whatever was attacking first, soon followed by a flaming Human Torch zooming over my head. Soon the other Avengers and Fantastic Four member joined in the chaos, and T'Challa (as predictable as ever) found me first.

"Do I really need to ask anymore?" I questioned rhetorically as his hand slipped under my arm and hauled me up to my feet, and pulled the both of us behind a pillar for some sort of cover.

"Envoys of Doctor Doom," He answered regardless. "Are you hurt?"

"No, are you?" He wasn't either, thanks to his armor. Belatedly, I realized that I didn't have mine on—dammit. This is starting to become a bad habit; me not having my armor on at times when I really did need it. I didn't even have my clawed gloves!

T'Challa seemed to have spotted my problem as well, and firmly instructed me to get away to safety. My first thought was to get to my private lab—in an emergency it also acted as a panic room. The only problem was that Doom's forces were blocking the only available path to safety. My only other option was to get outside and make a break for it.

I pointed out my options to my boyfriend, and true to his character, he hated the idea of me running out of the mansion. But he liked the other plan even less, so carefully timing things he created enough of a diversion for me to slip past unnoticed.

The plan seems to have work—

 _ZAP_

—and down I went…yet again.

*.*.*.*

I can't be all that positive about how long I was unconscious for, but I could damn well be sure enough about how much I hated being attacked from behind, _yet again._ And—despite how weird I'd look—I should definitely make it a point to look into some sort of protective head wear.

During the brief moments when I sort of regained consciousness, I could only just make out the fact that somebody was talking—actually, two somebodies. I couldn't even focus on catching what they were saying before I lost the fight to stay awake.

It became a bit easier later on, mostly thanks to an obnoxiously loud alarm going off, but everything just refused to focus properly. At least I was able to stay awake his time, though I felt oddly cramped for some weird reason.

Somehow finding the energy to do so, my eyelid managed to peel open…though the view was very less than helpful—everything looked as though I was peering through filmy fog, which didn't really help in telling me if I was really alive or really dead.

Beyond the immediate—and unattractive—view, I saw vague shadows of varying sizes jumping about, followed by what sounded like fighting. Geez, what the Hell is going on out there? And why does my head hurt so much? I know I've taken hits to the head before, but it's never taken this long to recover.

As testament to lack of said recovery, I was in no way prepared for the sudden weightless sensation, kinda similar to being dropped from mid-air. Thankfully my free-fall was short-lived as somebody caught me from below. Instead of putting me back on my feet, however, the person who saved me just pulled me tighter against their broad chest—I guess they thought I wasn't in any condition to walk…which worries me, because it means I'm in way worse shape than I think I am.

' _Funny, but the person holding me feels a whole lot warmer than a person usually should. Why is that?'_

My poor little head started to swim again—nearly violently, this time—and my stomach felt like there was a roller coaster inside my guts. Blissfully the moment passed without making a mess, and it was now much easier to focus on the stinging pain in my forehead and the wet something wiping against my skin there.

"Hey, is she coming to?"

"Hard to say; sometimes she'll just open her eyes, but other times she'll—"

"Get da fuck off-a me, ya wet slimy git."

"She'll do that. Now she's awake." My brother: the comedian.

A few more gentle swipes later and whatever the wet thing was, was taken away, finally allowing me a chance to open my eyes. Like I knew he'd be, Tony was almost hovering by my left shoulder; Johnny Storm was standing on his left, looking down at me with a very worried face. There was a soft, almost near quiet sound of movement to my right—it was T'Challa, with his mask pulled back completely.

Normally, seeing him would calm me down, but the fact that he now wore surgical gloves? It really didn't help ease the heebie-jeebies that he held a soiled red cotton ball in his hand.

Probably sensing my (sluggishly) rising panic, T'Challa discarded the cotton ball into a surgical dish and gently captured my hand between both of his, gazing at me with soft intensity. "How do you feel, Rose?" He inquired in an equally soft tone.

"Like there's a damn elephant stomping on my brains." I slurred weakly, mostly due to a (thankfully) minor wave of nausea. "Sorry, but the gloves don't exactly make me feel any better. I'm kinda afraid to ask what I've done this time."

T'Challa—for his part—looked relieve that I was coherent, at least enough to manage long enough sentences without feeling (or being) sick. My brother and Johnny—on their part—were cautious, almost uncertain. In the end (and after a particularly pointed look from T'Challa) Tony cleared the lump on his throat and began to speak.

"Well, you…you kinda took a bad clip to the head." He explained lamely, and frustratingly, it wasn't the least bit helpful. I looked to Johnny in the hopes of a better outlook, but the most he could offer me was an attempt of a smile that looked more like a very painful wince. Belatedly, the smarter part of me brain piped up and asked me why I hadn't asked T'Challa, since he wasn't one to mince his words; especially when it comes to bodily harm.

Like the suspiciously telepathic man I often accuse him of being, T'Challa rolled his eyes and sent the other two rather dirty looks. Wow, I didn't know he had it in him. When he looked back down at me, I could see in his golden eyes a private war being fought. His protective side was trying all it possibly could do to prevent me from learning the truth; his rational side knew that telling me the truth would be much better.

But, in all likelihood, his realistic side won the argument by pointing out that if he lied to me, and I found out that he did, I'd kick his ass as painfully as I could make it.

"We cannot be certain when it happened," He spoke at long last, "But I suspect that when one of the Doom-bots attacked you from behind and the momentum sent you tumbling rather heavily into the ground." There he stopped and carefully watched my face, ready for any sort of subtle that marked my reaction.

"…it's bad, isn't it?"

"It did raise some concerns, yes. Thankfully it turned out to be a 'it looks worse than it really is' matter." Hm…still, it goes some way to explain the state my poor head is in.

"What next?" I asked, "About the Doom-bots and the rest, I mean." Relieved that I was taking everything so well, Tony jumped back in to take over the story, the big, shiny chicken.

"You, Wasp and Sue Storm were taken to Latveria," My brother explained, "We're not exactly sure on why Dr. Doom did that, but it doesn't look like he did anything else to you ladies…besides attacking and kidnapping you."

"As soon as we had who we needed, we retreated from Latveria, and are now heading home," T'Challa finished up. "We are only an hour from New York. As for your injury, I took advantage of your disorientation—"

"T'Challa! That's no way to treat your girlfriend! Shame on you, you bad man." I interrupted, playfully gasping in mock outrage. If it weren't for the fact that everyone knew me better, and for the big ass grin on my face, they might have otherwise thought I was being serious. Instead, while Tony tried to smother his laughter, T'Challa just smirked and rolled his eyes at my attempt of humor.

"As I was saying," He continued, "While you were 'out of it', I cleaned out the dirt from your wound, and stitched it closed. I was cleaning the last of the dried blood when you so eloquently came around." In T'Challa speak: 'we need to have a word about your language, young lady.'

Whoops~!

"Yay for me," I mumbled to myself before sighing in a little relief. "Still, we're safe and sound and heading for home. That's as much as anyone can ask for." My brother and boyfriend were happy enough to agree with my assessment, whereas Johnny grumbled under his breath about making Doom pay, or something along those lines. Thankfully, he left it at that.

As he mentioned earlier, T'Challa finished cleaning up the last of the blood on my forehead, then carefully covered the (he assures me) tiny stitches with a small plaster. Let's just hope there isn't a repeat of the last time I had stitches. Once I was patched up and cleaned to his liking, T'Challa sat back with a relieved sigh and snapped off the surgical gloves. I was so bloody tempted to make a joke about 'being examined', but he caught the blossoming smirk on my face and quickly placed a gentle finger against my lips.

"Not now, my love," He spoke lowly, "And certainly not in public."

"Spoilsport," I managed to get out. Failing miserably to conceal his smile, Tony looked at my boyfriend and gave a subtle nod to the side, indicating he wanted a private word. Heaving a resigned sigh, T'Challa gracefully rose to his feet and—after giving Johnny clear instructions on not letting me fall asleep—followed after Tony.

Johnny then sat in the recently vacated seat, just quietly watching me. As much as I found his eagle-eyed look unnerving, I was grateful for a few minutes of peace and quiet to deal with a sudden wave of nausea hitting me. Once it passed, I was grateful to see Johnny holding a bottle of water for me. Then—bless him—he helped me sit up, and held the bottle while I took a few tentative sips.

"Feel any better now?" He asked softly as he screwed the bottle lid back on and set it aside.

"Marginally," I answered honestly, leaning back on the wall behind me. "My head hurts, and I feel nauseous every few minutes. It could have been a lot worse, though."

"Ain't that the truth?" Johnny muttered under his breath. I wasn't sure if I was meant to have heard that or not, so I pretended that I didn't.

For the next few minutes or so, Johnny talked about random things in an effort to keep me awake. There were a few instances when I did close my eyes for a bit longer than he thought was safe, but I was still talking, so that was something at least. But there was one question of his that caught me by surprise.

"Hey, Briar, do you…do you ever think we might've had a chance, as a couple?"

…Really? He had to ask me that, right now?

But—try as I might—it was pretty darn hard to be mad at him when poor Johnny looked so darn innocent and hopeful. As my poor little brain tried all it could to come up with a decent and truthful answer, I started to wonder what he even saw in me at all. Plus, cute as Johnny is and all, he can be really loud and pretty damn brash when it comes to fighting (and a few other things). There was also the part where he's all for the public's adoration and praise—I wasn't even going to touch the fan-girls and their 'one-shots'. That was the same day I learnt how terrifying the internet could really be.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense: Johnny just wasn't the right guy for me.

"Honestly? I doubt it." I finally answered truthfully, "Personality wise, we're completely incompatible, and we'd only end up on each other's nerves all the time."

"So? Opposites attract, don't they?" He countered.

"Maybe, but not all the time," I continued, "We're just too different from each other, and have very little in common." To my muddled mind, that sounded like a perfectly reasonable answer. I just hope he doesn't take it as an insult.

Thankfully the small, kind and understanding smile that appeared told me that he didn't. He conceded that I was right, and that it was for the better that I was with T'Challa after all. "But that doesn't mean I can't tease you about us being a couple," He smiled impishly, "Whenever we're likely to catch up." Smiling a little, I rolled my eyes, but quietly admitted to myself that maybe he wasn't all that bad after all.

In the back of my poor, sore little brain, a part of me remarked that it was a good thing that Johnny and I were still friends—because whatever reason he had, Doctor Doom had acted tonight with clarity and purpose.

I wonder…what are the chances that this event could change everything, for everyone?

* * *

And that's the first chapter! Wow, I feel so...yeah, I'll work on that. Speaking of working, you'll have noticed that I've changed how I write. I'd appreciate it if anyone had any tips about spelling and grammar. Just be warned that any haters will have to deal with the Hulk.

Well, that's me for now. I've been warned not to take so long with this story this time; a certain sorceress has her eye on me. Til next time!


	2. Alone Against AIM

Hey, everyone! Sorry if I'm a little late with this one. It was about 30 pages long when I wrote this out, and it didn't always want to work the way I wanted it to. And it really didn't help that T'Challa is becoming bloody insufferable lately. Laugh while you can, you overgrown kitty-cat! It won't last for long, and I will enjoy your suffering!

By the way, there is swearing in this chapter. Who knew Briar had such a dirty mouth on her?

* * *

Alone Against AIM

When Clint reported that Hank's new personal assistant was 'easy on the eyes', and that even Hulk's head was turned, I probably should have reminded myself that this interesting bit of information came from the mouth of one Clint Barton—the man who is rather notorious for understating things, in particular the pretty damn important stuff. Often times, when something like that happens, I'm left scrambling to get a proper idea of the entire matter.

This time, however, Clint had described the mystery lady to a perfect 'T', much to my dumbstruck mind.

So, with that in mind why don't I go back to the start of the day, and before I became tongue-tied and left scrambling to recover some of my dignity?

* * *

 _Sept 25_ _th_ _, 20xx_

"Rose. Your darling cat is in my face again."

"Before 8 am, he's your darling cat." As perfectly reasonable as my argument sounded, T'Challa wasn't having one bar of it. To be fair, having a cat curling itself into the space between your face and you girlfriend's head? It's probably not the greatest way to wake up in the morning—unless you actually prefer cat hair coating your tongue.

Nevertheless I was more-or-less awake now and carefully pulled a sleepy Salem into my arms. T'Challa gave a satisfied grunt before rolling over to bury his face in to a fur-free pillow. Grumbling under my breath, I quietly slipped out of bed and into the main lounge, immediately spotting a now awake Voltaire, who was sporting an almost human-like look of worry on his muzzle.

"Here's your little brother—didn't we have a discussion about Salem staying out here with you?" I lightly scolded before gently placing the feline culprit in front of the extremely larger-than-average dog. Voltaire gave me an apologetic whine as Salem gave a little mewl of contrition before tucking himself under Voltaire's head.

Feeling the willpower to stay mad (or at least annoyed) at the most adorable pets a girl can own beginning to clash against my rising annoyance at being woken up so early and not so nicely, I turned around and went back into the bedroom. Now even bothering to climb under the covers, I just crawled over and slumped against my boyfriend's warm back. I may—or may not—have had a bit of sadistic pleasure in hearing T'Challa grunt in discomfort when I landed on him—it's before 8 in the morning, I should not be awake! I get cranky and vindictive, he knows this!

But that became water under the bridge as my body began to relax, and my mind began to drift peacefully back into sleepy land…

 _Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!_

"You can't be fucking serious."

"Rose!"

~.~.~.~.~

"Wow, you look terrible." Clint remarked. If I were in a proper frame of mind, I would have given him a nice bruise on his arm, or even a witty and cutting rebuttal. As it stood, my poor little mind was a mess and my cheeks were more than likely stained a permanent red.

I completely and utterly blame T'Challa for what caused my new look.

After my less-than-lady-like response to the alarm clock going off, I was more than happy to break the machine and go back to sleep, but T'Challa screwed up my plans by slipping out of bed, and then he had the gall to drag me to the edge of the bed, _by my ankles!_

Since my boyfriend and the rest of the world was more or less against me, I had no choice but to go unhappily along with whatever happens. T'Challa did make up for his actions by pulling me into a bear hug once I was on my feet. Ah, there's nothing quite like the feeling of being enveloped by the nearly overwhelming and comforting warmth that only a loved one can give you. Of course, T'Challa easily managed to top that feeling by pressing a few butterfly-soft kisses to my temples and whispering sweet nothings into my ear.

Sneaky fiend, no wonder that I love him so much!

Considerably less grumpy than when I woke up, I somehow untangled from my boyfriend's grip and slipped into my wardrobe to change into my work-out clothes, before exiting the bedroom and going through my usual morning routine of stretching, yoga, followed by a light breakfast, and then Pilates and a gym session with T'Challa. Everything was going well, right up until we began Pilates. I have no idea how it happened, but halfway though it turned into a weird hybrid of twister and tickle torture. Actually, scratch that, I know how—T'Challa started it. It doesn't help that he knows where all my really sensitive and highly ticklish spots are, and he went after each and every one of them.

Remind me again why I love that big bully?!

Finally taking pity on me, T'Challa stopped his teasing and let me catch my breath and rest long enough before he put me through the usual grueling morning gym session.

"Remind me again why I let you talk me into this?" I panted, my body being on autopilot as I ran on the treadmill. I learnt the hard way that it was an extremely bad idea to turn whilst running on this thing—thank Heavens T'Challa caught me in time. It was even better thanks that he didn't laugh at me for my clumsiness—smile, yes, but not laugh.

"Because, like any other boyfriend, I worry about you when you are out on your own," He replied from beside the machine's head, "And also because I am worried about any after-effects you may have, considering that you had the Odin-force temporarily infused in your body, no matter the short time."

"In other words, you're scared of losing me, especially after I had some crazy Asgardian magic mojo happen to me." I commented breathlessly, "Fair enough."

…Yeah, it really was a fair enough reason.

~.~.~.~.~

I mentioned a bit earlier that I totally and completely blamed T'Challa for leaving me red-faced and an extremely wibbly wreck? The incident in question didn't happen while we were in the gym; it happened when we were getting cleaned up, in which came yet another of my less-than-spectacular moments.

After completing the gym session, which left the both of us sweating a storm, T'Challa and I went back to our room where I was generously given the first shower. Setting down clean undergarments and my vibranium armor on the bathroom bench, I had an incident-free shower.

However I was wa-a-a-ay off in my world when I got out and wrapped a towel around my body. It became horrendously obvious how deep I was out of things when I dried myself off, dressed in my undergarments and the bottom half of my armor, and reaching for the top half when I looked up at the mirror…just as T'Challa had finished securing his towel around his hips, his body still damp with water.

It took my brain a few seconds to play catch-up, and process what I was seeing. My eyes zeroed in and tracked the movements of a water drop as it slowly slid down T'Challa's pectoral muscle, down the grooves of his stomach before disappearing into his towel—my eyes flicked upwards…and the dumb bugger was smirking outrageously.

A saner person than I would have attempted to play the moment off, or use it as an opening to flirt as outrageously as he smirked. And what did I do…I squealed, threw my shirt at his head and ran to the safety of my wardrobe, shut the door behind me and leaned against said door. I didn't even need a mirror to know that my face was blister red.

Please. Kill. Me.

~.~.~.~.~

It took some time, but I was able to come out of the closet (puns aside please) and get dressed. What took the longest wasn't just me trying to calm down—which wasn't likely to happen any time soon—but also T'Challa trying to talk to my through the door, coaxing me out.

Nuh-uh, not happening.

T'Challa eventually got the hint and left. I waited a bit longer to make sure that he was really out of the room—not just tricking me—then cautiously poked my head out. T'Challa wasn't there, but he was kind enough to leave the missing half of my armor on the bed. Feeling a bit (or a lot) shame-faced, I dragged myself out of my hiding-hole and finished getting dressed. As I pulled a pair of denim jeans and a short sleeved t-shirt, my mind (either cruelly or gleefully) went back over the sight of a half-naked and wet T'Challa. I whimpered pathetically to myself as it also went over my gigantic freak out at said sight.

Geez, what the hell is wrong with me?! I've already seen him shirtless dozens of times already; some of the key moments coming to mind being the times we were in the pool, and the 'elevator madness' moment. So why did I have a problem with this now?

' _Would it have to do with it being more intimate?'_ My inner voice offered, _'And maybe because you knew there was nothing but_ him _underneath that towel?'_

"Okay, that is so not helping right now!" I told myself firmly, going so far as to face plant myself onto the bed in an attempt to shut out the thoughts and voices. As someone in the near future may well point out, I just went through the 'con' part of having both a male roommate and only one bathroom.

Before I could wallow too deeply into my thoughts, I felt a large head resting beside my leg, shortly followed by a soft questioning whine. Pulling my head up, I looked into Voltaire's bright blue eyes, reflecting an almost human-like curiosity. If he could speak, I'm positive that he'd be asking if I was alright.

"I may have over-reacted badly." I finally admitted in a soft tone. Voltaire's eyes flicked to a side before looking back at me, and inclined his head in a gesture that suggested 'so?'

"And I may also have given T'Challa a wrong idea." In a move that I could absolutely see a human doing, Voltaire rolled his eyes and gave a deep _whuff_ sound before bumping his big head against my leg in a not-so-subtle gesture. I guess animals take a much more simplistic view of matters like this. Since Voltaire wasn't going to let me wallow in my own stupidity, I pulled on my socks and faithful hiking boots and went out into the main lounge.

"Do you want to talk-?"

"No!"

* * *

There, all caught up. And believe me, it was a very awkward car ride over to Avengers Mansion, since I didn't want to talk about the freak-out and T'Challa very much did.

When Clint greeted us at the door, I took advantage of the two men talking and snuck inside and into the sub-levels. I was half tempted to seek out Steve for a team up to run a training gauntlet, but ultimately decided against it. Maybe it was just me, but ever since we came back from Asgard, something about Steve has changed. And I didn't mean about his new Captain America uniform—I mean it's like he himself has changed. He didn't waste much time mourning the loss of his prized shield, and I know how damn protective of it he was. Now there's just this weird vibe to him now…

Eh, maybe I'll just camp out in my private lab for a little while, and play a few video games to pass the time. If anything, the little break will hopefully give me a chance to clear my head…and preferably over think my earlier freak-out and avoidance of said freak-out…or should that be the other way around?

It sounded like a very good plan (at least, to me it did) but—like every good plan—it was waylaid by the state of my lab…it was an absolute mess! I know that I can be a tad chaotic when I work, but never on this level!

"My lab!" I cried out in dismay, "JARVIS, what happened in here?!"

"Regretfully, Miss Stark, there is no possible means of answering your inquiry—upon designing your laboratory, Mister Stark complied with your wish of no security surveillance within." The AI answered me from just outside my door.

"I probably should've thought that through better," I mumbled to myself before turning to JARVIS again, "What about the surveillance in the hallways?" There was a pause of the AI went through said surveillance to find an answer, and hopefully a culprit. I don't get angry about possessions all that much, but this crosses a line!

"Apologies: there is no footage of any person approaching or leaving the entrance of your laboratory." He finally answered, sounding the tiniest bit sorry an artificial intelligence could be. I felt myself sag as I stared at the giant mess before me. It's going to take me ages to clean it all up and put it back the way I have everything.

"Miss Stark? Is everything all right?" I just about jumped as a familiar voice called out to me, coming from down the hallway. Turning my head to said person, I was rather surprised to see Phil Coulson walking towards me. Surprised, but also a bit relieved.

"Hey, Phil," I greeted, trying to keep the wan feeling at bay. Of course, being the seasoned SHIELD agent that he is, he could tell the smile on my face looked more fixed than natural. Standing beside me, Phil gave me a look of concern—complete with an almost suspicious sideways look—before leaning to peer into the room, and whistled at the sight within.

"That's, uh, quite a mess in there," He commented, his blue eyes taking in the scattered tools strewed about the floor, the drawers that looked like they've all been blown out from within, and my poor chair—it's super cushy padding was torn out and covering my computer desk. _There will be hell to pay if the culprit has done something to my system!_

"Was there any particular reason why you did this?" Phil asked, "Art, maybe?"

"Or sheer frustration at certain aspects of my existence," I offered sardonically, "Sadly, I can't claim any of this as mine. Someone must have broken in, though I can't imagine why; there's nothing of interest or sinister use in here."

As I mentioned earlier, Phil Coulson is a seasoned agent of incredible merit, so his poker face is beyond par. He just looked at the scene with a near blank expression on his face. If I hadn't of been so distracted by the calamity before us, I would have recognized the look in his eyes as he look of someone needing to have strong words with someone else in the very near future.

Then the moment passed and Phil is giving me a gentle smile before kindly offering to help me clean up the mess.

I promised to buy him dinner as thanks.

~.~.~.~.~

"You really did that?" Phil questioned in an incredulous tone, "You actually squealed and hid in your wardrobe?"

"And threw my shirt at him, but yes," I winced. In the time it took to clear up the lab, he had asked me about what I had been up to since the last time he saw me, to which I had said that not much had gone on…up until this morning. Damn blush gave me away, and since Phil can be pretty damn insistent about what happened, I had no choice but to tell him. Cue waves of embarrassment.

"Have you talked to him about it?" Phil asked.

…

"You haven't talked to him about it," He remarked dryly, "Do you even plan on talking to him about it?"

…

"Briar," Phil began in a warning tone, "You are going to talk to your boyfriend about what happened, or so help me I'll get involved."

"You wouldn't?!" I finally blurted out in shock. The warning look on his face was promised enough that yes, yes he would get himself involved. "Of course you would. Damn."

"At least use it as a basis for setting some limits," Phil amended slightly, "I mean you're now sharing an apartment—of sorts—with a man, and there's only one bathroom. It won't stop the inevitable walk-in's-at-awkward-times, but at least you can lessen the amount of times it happens."

Huh…such a simple solution, and yet so brilliant. Why didn't I think of that?

' _Quite possibly because you were wallowing in your own mind,'_ my inner voice not so helpfully pointed out, something I chose to ignore.

"Just out of curiosity, why did you freak out?" Phil suddenly asked, "It's not like your intimidated by the man, right?" Did he really need to keep bringing this up? I'd like nothing more than to not to talk about it anymore. It would make me very happy if we stopped talking about it!

"If you ever saw first-hand the damage that man can do just by his sheer presence, let alone any sort of action, you'd be a little intimidated," I finally replied, "Even if he doesn't mean to, T'Challa can be a very overpowering man sometimes."

"Well…he is a king," Phil reminded me in a playfully flat tone. Since we were standing next to each other, I took the opportunity to push at his shoulder, the both of us smiling and laughing.

"Funny," I said, "But I was really getting at that sometimes his powerful presence can be rather off-putting. Even when it's just the two of us, T'Challa can be a bit… a bit…"

"Regal?" Phil supplied, "Aloof? Working on a higher spot than everyone else?" I think the blank look on my face conveyed just how much I actually understood of that.

"Why don't we start off with getting the two of you talking again, and then work on the rest later?" Seeing as he finally understood that I was trying to describe something impossible, Phil back-tracked a bit to a somewhat easier topic.

' _Oh, sure, he makes it sound so easy!_ '

When the last of my scattered tools were put away, and the chair stuffing pushed back into my chair, I was finally able to get to my computer and check on my systems. Phil hovered over my shoulder as I stood at my desk, acting as a second pair of eyes, but after half an hour, the pair of us concluded that nothing nasty had been left behind, or that anything had been taken in the first place.

"Well, that's a big relief," I sighed as I rolled my head, working out a little kink, "I think I might just let JARVIS in, to double check everything."

"Good idea," Phil nodded, "And maybe put some sort of security system in place?" Oh, most definitely! It already proved to be a pain in the ass to clean up this mess, even with another person's help, so any chance to never go through the again, I'll take it.

"I'll bring it up with Tony later." I promised—both Phil and myself—as we left my now clean lab. I paused at a nearby interface and asked JARVIS to keep a watch on my lab, and gave him access to my private computer to give it a thorough scouring in case I missed something.

"Of course, Miss Stark," The artificial intelligence assured me, "Also, whilst you and Agent Coulson were attending to the matter of your laboratory, there was a call from Dr. Pym. Apparently he has left some of his work files in his mobile laboratory, and would like someone to bring it to him at Grayburn College."

"I can do that," I volunteered, "Did he say which files he wanted?" JARVIS gave a response, so I set off down the hallways to find that odd-dome of Hank's. Phil came along with a confused look on his face.

"I though Dr. Pym quit the team weeks ago?" He questioned.

"He did," I nodded, "Though I've gotta be honest, I'm a little surprised he lasted as long as he did. Hank's a scientist, not a fighter, and a pacifist, to boot. It wasn't kind of us to keep forcing him into battles."

"I guess I can understand that," The agent conceded, "But why has he still got his things here and not at the college?"

"No idea. I'll ask him when I drop his files off." You know, Hank…as much as I love you, you can be a real butt sometimes. Those files came in boxes: big, heavy boxes, the sort that required more than one person to carry out to a new location.

"How about I give you a hand with those? I have a car waiting outside."

"Why don't we do that? And afterwards I can buy you dinner, as promised earlier."

~.~.~.~.~

Carting out those boxes wasn't too much of a problem, seeing as Phil was stronger than he looked, and I had super strength too…okay, fine: we had Hulk help out as well. It was the last two boxes, and neither I nor Phil felt all that inclined to make a second trip just for two boxes. Phil led the way to his car…and I almost dropped my arm load of heavy boxes onto my feet. Oh, this was a very nice car: a cherry red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette.

' _T'Challa is so gonna be jealous when he sees this!'_ I giggled to myself as the three of us loaded the back seat with all twelve boxes. As soon as he could, the Hulk went back inside without giving us a good-bye. Part of me was a little annoyed, but the rest of me pointed out that this _was_ the Hulk, after all.

"Short stack," I exchanged an odd look with Phil before walking over to the gates, and saw the Hulk paused halfway through the front door. "Don't get into trouble." He called, and then stomped inside.

…Well, that was weird. Even by Phil's standard and he's seen some pretty darn weird stuff over the years.

Rather than dwell on that—and avoid a possible a possible headache—we climbed into his car and set off to Grayburn College, discussing whatever random topic that came to mind. The most talked about was Disney, off all things, and certain movies that required in-depth debates.

"I still think Dopey was rescued from an asylum," I argued, "His parents were annoyed about his lack of talking, and thought some time in an asylum would help, but it just made it worse."

"And what, the rest of the Dwarves rescued him and adopted him?" Phil countered, "…actually, I can see them adopting Dopey—he doesn't have a beard like the rest, and has blue eyes not brown. But where's you evidence that he's ever been in an asylum?"

"When all the Dwarves are sleeping downstairs: Dopey starts whimpering and twitching in his sleep, then Sneezy pokes him in the backside and he calms down."

"That's it? That's your evidence? A jab in the backside doesn't always equal a serious problem. Maybe Dopey was just having a nightmare and Sneezy poked him to wake him up enough to calm down."

…Dang it, I hate it when he's right.

Before we could discuss anymore theories—or have Phil rip them apart—we had arrived at our destination. Since the Hulk wasn't around to lend a hand like he did earlier, I had to carry a majority of them. Not that it was heavy (super powers, suckers!) but it was pretty cumbersome having to carry ten full boxes.

Thankfully people were nice enough to clear out of the way for us, and that Phil knew his way around enough to guide me.

"I can only imagine the looks we're getting right now," I joked to Phil as we climbed up the last flight of stairs.

"Mostly a mix of 'look at how many boxes she's carrying' and 'it's gotta be a hoax', plus a few boys looking pretty emasculated," Phil reported humorously, and it was all I could do just to not start grinning like an absolute moron. Was I taking too much pleasure in showing up a few males? Probably, but did I enjoy doing it, none the less? Hell yeah!

It didn't take all that long for us to reach the floor we needed, and as kind for that janitor to help, we managed to get to Hank's office, much to my relief. As I mentioned earlier, it's not that the weight of the boxes were finally getting to me, but my arms are starting to get numb. Since his own arms were full, Phil had to call back to the janitor and ask him to knock on the door for us.

I shuffled back as much as I could, but small as I was, these boxes still made things a bit awkward for us all. Eventually the janitor made it and politely knocked on the door before poking his head around the corner. "Miss Nelson? There are two people out here with boxes, a lot of boxes." Who now? Were we at the right place?

"Ah, those must be the files that Hank wanted," A pleased sounding woman's voice said, "Please, bring them in." Ah, okay, we are in the right place, then. So who…oh, brain poot—this must be Hank's new assistant, the one Clint told me about.

Phil went in after the janitor, and between the pair of them, I was able to finally see where I was going and get through the door. It took a bit more awkward shuffling on my part, but the three of us got the now banes of my existence onto the floor.

With a relieved sigh, I plopped down onto my backside then fell onto my back with a grateful sigh, glad that I could now move my arms again—but definitely not liking the blood rushing and the pins-and-needles feeling! "Hank, you owe me a new set of arms," I called out, "But I'll settle for a glass of water, if you could."

"I think I can arrange for some water, at least," The mysterious woman chuckled from somewhere above my head, "Would you like a hand getting up, doll?" Doll…wow, haven't heard anyone call me that for a long while now, other than Rhodey. Anyway, I gladly took her up on the offer, once my arms stopped tingling painfully every time I moved them.

Once I was back on my feet, I turned to thank her—only to come nose to…uh, well…what I thought was her face was actually a very ample…chest. My head shot up higher and finally met her face…only to be struck dumb. In hindsight, I came to realize that—for once—Hawkeye was actually correct in his vague description of a woman.

Towering over me at 5'10'' (she wasn't even wearing heels!) her long and wavy ruby red hair tumbled loosely to her waist. Her glittery emerald eyes sparkled with untold mischief and sass, but also gentleness as well. But what I found the most beautiful feature about her was her skin. It was…well, in all honesty, it looked very similar to tiger stripes, extending all over. At least, I presume so, I couldn't see past the short sleeved business shirt and grey skirt.

The immediate word that sprang to my mind was 'vitiligo', the skin pigmentation condition. But I've never seen or heard anything like this before.

I felt my jaw being gently closed—crap was I staring?! I must have been, and I probably wasn't the first person to do so. That was the only explanation as to why she took my open-mouthed staring in such great stride and a gentle, patient smile. "Believe me, doll, it's all real." She teased me. All I could do in response was blush bright pink, duck my head and wish that I had never gotten out of bed this morning.

Before anyone could poke fun at me, or I could sink any further into the eternal Pit of Embarrassment, the door opened again, this time Hank walked in with his nose nearly buried in a clipboard of something absolutely fascinating and mumbling softly to himself in excitement. Rolling her eyes, our sassy hostess strode over to him and easily plucked the board out of his hands. Pulled abruptly back into reality, Hank gave a befuddled squawk of surprise.

"Greer, I need that!" He protested in a childish tone, trying to reach for his work. The woman—Greer, I quickly corrected myself—just turned around and began examining the contents herself, occasionally making noises of interest as she read whatever it was. As she moved, I watched as Hank followed after her with a pout on his face.

"Oh, yes, very interesting, indeed." She finally claimed in a thoughtful tone, coming to a complete stop. Just when Hank thought he could get his work back (though not without lightly bumping into her back) she held the board tightly against her chest with one arm, her other pressing her hand flat against his chest to stop him from falling forward. Surprisingly, Hank did stop at her touch, his cheeks suddenly a shade pinker than before as he looked down at her hand for a few seconds before looking at Greer's face with an almost child-like hope.

"I know, right?" He beamed excitedly, "I'd like to see if we can replicate the results in another species, maybe in one of the cricket species?" My earlier embarrassment totally forgotten, I found myself picturing Hank as a little boy in a sweets shop, and finding somebody else with the same excitement he had. He was never this happy with Wasp, even when talking science with her…or at least trying to talk to her about it.

"Then we shall get to work," Greer nodded. He hand quickly shot from the middle of his chest to press her finger (with a manicured pointed nail) against his mouth, silencing any further discussions about the subject from Hank. "But only _after_ you've thanked our guests for bringing your files over, baby doll,"

His cheeks as red as his old Ant Man costume, Hank looked at her before tilting his head and making a noise of confusion; and looking too much like a cute, adorable little puppy! And no, the polite cough from behind my shoulder did NOT make the pair of us jump in surprise, though neither Greer nor Phil poked fun at, to our relief. If we did jump, I mean, which we totally didn't.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Pym," Phil greeted him casually. My brain was a little slow on formulating words, so I had to settle for giving him a shy little wave. Hank looked at the both of us for a few seconds, and then to the mini mountain of boxes beside us before it clicked who the two of us were, and what Greer had said. And now he looks like a little boy at his first Christmas, and Santa Claus had delivered the exact presents he wanted. Naw, he's just so cute!

"Hey!" He beamed happily, "What a pleasant surprise!" He stepped away from Greer to come over and pull me into a big bear hug, much to my surprise.

"Ugh! G-Good to see you too, Hank," I somehow managed to get out as he pulled away, "Ah, this is Phil Coulson, by the way." No hugs for Phil (lucky) he just got a firm and grateful handshake instead when Hank let me go.

"Thank you, the both of you," Hank spoke as he took a step back from us, "I hope they weren't too much of a problem getting in here."

"Not at all, since Briar has super strength. Quite handy, that," Phil answered with a down played shrug of his shoulders.

…At this point in time, I would very much like to point out that what's left of my brain has well and truly gone _kaput_!

Greer must have been watching me closely; before Hank could start talking to me, she smoothly interjected herself into the conversation with an offer of tea, coffee or cold drinks—the last one we all agreed on. Soon the four of us—huh, I guess the janitor left ages ago—were sitting at a hastily cleaned table, each with a clean glass before us as Greer played hostess and poured from a chilled jug of water. Efficient, I'll give her that.

"Oh, where are my manners?" Hank suddenly exclaimed, "Briar, this is Greer Nelson. Greer, this is Briar Stark—Tony Stark's younger sister."

"A pleasure to meet you, doll," Greer smiled as she sat back down in her seat next to Hank.

"Likewise," I replied politely, despite my tongue still being stuck to the roof of my mouth. "This is Phil Coulson." They exchanged pleasantries, Phil even asking about something. I was too busy lost in thoughts to really pay attention to the conversation—the contents of the files we brought over, my brain would pick up—as I quietly sipped at my water and studied Hank.

He was…happy. Truly happy, and peaceful—something I haven't seen in him in all the time I've known him. There wasn't even the slightest trace of sadness and/or guilt that had been weighing him down after the whole Ultron mess. It was almost like that event never happened…

Or maybe—just maybe—he's somehow (and finally) forgiven himself. If that's the case, I wonder who helped him come to terms with it all. Not that I'm looking at Greer or anything. I fully tuned into the conversation just as Phil asked them how Greer came to work for Hank.

"Not to pry or anything, but I was under the impression that Janet Van Dyne was your assistant." Phil was saying, and being cool, casual and subtle as an elephant in the room about it. I—hold the phone. Phil just dropped Wasp's name, but Hank didn't lose any of his chipper. There wasn't even a hint of a wistful look, either.

What the wow?

"She was," Hank nodded, leaning back in his chair. "After I quit the Avengers and came back here full time, however, I found my office nearly drowning in paperwork. I barely made a dent in it, even after a week after we came back from Asgard, until I stumbled into, uh…that is, until Greer knocked on my door." If I were a different sort of person, I would have pointed out that when Hank looked to said woman, he gained an utterly grateful on his face. And I would also have pointed out that Hank was totally going to say something else entirely before that quick change.

Hm-hm…

"I had just enrolled here as a part-time student," Greer took over. There was a teasing smile on her face: my guess is because she noticed that Hank changed how they actually met. "Plus, I used to travel a lot, and at one point came into possession of a rare butterfly specimen. I've been meaning to donate it to science, and since Hank's name is foremost in the field of entomology, I came over to see if he was interested." It started to worry me when Greer looked into her glass of water with an angry look on her face, her fingers curling tightly around her glass. "Only when I opened the door, I found poor Hank almost going under forgotten and unfiled paperwork."

Knowing that my concern was clearly written all over my face, my eyebrows were nearly into my hairline as I turned to Hank. I watched as he fought an internal struggle within himself before Hank finally gave in to one side. Oh, boy…

"Jan might have been good at arranging meetings for me, but often claimed that my paperwork was too boring and left it for me to do, in between teaching and doing my own research," He admitted in a frank tone, "The powers that be the College board said they could only overlook so much, so I needed to get it under control before I got into serious trouble, and lose my job."

…WHOA-ho-ho! Now, if that wasn't a big, big, ouch! That's one hell of a slap to face, for Jan at least!

"So what, when you mentioned it, Miss Nelson offered her help?" I asked him, though I might have directed it at Greer as well.

"Please, call me Greer," She answered instead, "And pretty much, yes. I'm not afraid of a little work." Ouch; tough and probably fair. But why do I sense that there's more to this arrangement than what's being let on? "Besides, the work is super fascinating, and I get some hands-on experience with some of the specimens that Hank has." How interesting—as soon as Greer begins talking about bugs, the animosity towards Jan is gone, and replaced by true excitement.

Greer noticed my little smile and blushed prettily, even as she rolled her eyes. "Yes, fine alright, I'm a massive bug nerd."

"And so enthusiastic about the work, too," Hank added sincerely. In thanks for his words, Greer rested her hand against his wrist and battered her eyelashes at him, making Hank blush. While those two exchanged coy looks, Phil and I just looked at each other silently.

So Greer Nelson is a self-proclaimed 'massive bug nerd', is strikingly beautiful, and is clearly into helping out Hank in anything he needs, out of mutual love for their chosen field…or maybe just out of genuine love.

…oh, yeah, there's no doubt about it: Jan's gonna completely flip and be livid when she hears about this! Or rather 'if', because there's no way in Hell I'm gonna blab to her!

Still, it was really great to see Hank so very happy now, and working alongside someone who not only understands his position, but is in love with it herself.

Whelp, if Hank's happy, then I'm happy!

~.~.~.~.~

The rest of our time with Hank and Greer was filled with interesting conversations of all sorts of topics, though we did spend quite a bit on what Hank will get up to now that he has so much free time. At no point, however, did I bring up the recent-ish events of Doctor Doom kidnapping me, Wasp and Sue Storm, or even draw attention to the plaster bandage on my forehead. I tried to keep it hidden behind my fringe, but I swear it's like a billboard with great flashing neon lights.

Eventually the conversation turned to relationships—neither Phil nor I made mention about Hank sneaking a shy little look at a preoccupied Greer and how he blushed…or how Greer _did_ notice said look, and looked hopeful. Well, we didn't say anything out loud, at least. Somehow (probably avoidable, I guess) the subject of my relationship with T'Challa got brought up.

"Oh, yeah, I heard you are dating royalty," Greer mused aloud, "How's it going, if I can ask?"

"And how is T'Challa?" Hank added.

"It's going good, and T'Challa's good. We've just moved in together, so that's all good," I answered their inquiries. The pair of them gave me an odd look, and I wasn't even going to look at Phil to know what his look was.

' _Probably shouldn't have said_ 'good' _all that much,'_ my inner voice snickered, prompting me to ignore it as much as I could. But between my pesky conscious; and Phil giving me a disapproving look; and both Hank and Greer looking confused and worried…ugh, fine!

"There might have been a teeny tiny incident this morning," I told them, doing everything I could to downplay said accident as much as possible. Now, if I could just get Phil to stop looking at me like that, I'll good and dandy.

"Oh, like what?" Hank drawled slowly as his gaze flickered between me and the now glowering agent beside me. Do I really have to do this?! You know what? No, I don't, and nobody can make me!

…Actually, I probably should say something. Otherwise Phil will, and he won't couch it nicely by any means.

"I, uh….I kinda freaked out a little bit—fine, a lot!—when T'Challa came out of the shower this morning, while I was getting dressed." I begrudgingly coughed up, my cheeks feeling like they were once again on fire.

' _And now for the horrible onslaught of teasing,'_ I thought bitterly to myself and internally braced.

….Nobody said anything.

"Ah," Greer eventually did, but in a completely understanding tone of voice. "The curse of co-ed living arrangements," She didn't say another word, but that naughty little twinkle in her eyes did it for her. Thankfully, she just left it where it was and directed the conversation to something else entirely.

Hm, Greer may turn out to be another close gal-pal, like Chantè.

It didn't occur to me for a while; in fact it wasn't until my Avengers card started beeping at me (quite loudly) that any of us realized how late it had gotten, meaning T'Challa must be out of his mind with worry by now. Especially now that I've just remembered that I never let him know that I was going out today. Whoops!

I was fully and completely prepared to fend off any questions that my overly protective boyfriend might throw at me, but imagine my surprise when it wasn't him, and found myself looking at Hawkeye. Wow…I'm actually a little hurt that it wasn't T'Challa.

" _Yo, little Miss Starky,_ " The archer cheerfully greeted me, " _So where are you hiding this time?_ "

"I'm at Grayburn College," I answered, "Hank asked that someone drop off some boxes for him, so I offered." It was very nearly on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he was the one calling me and not my boyfriend.

" _Yeah, Hulk did mention something about boxes…a few hours later,_ " Hawkeye admitted, " _Boy! It really launched T'Challa into full_ Captain Cluck _mode when you disappeared on him like that._ " There was a guilty feeling beginning to grow in the pits of my stomach as he said that, but it stopped growing when Hawkeye delivered the rest of his news.

" _Then he found out that you had left with Phil. The dork even tried to send Chantè to go find you and bring you back to him…_ " It should be noted that he trailed off at that point, particularly since I was indirectly giving him the 'supremely aggravated to holy high heavens' version of The Look, complete with twitching upper lip.

Again, it was right on the tip of my tongue to mention that T'Challa's over-protectiveness was starting to look disturbingly like control tactics, and it was starting to grate heavily on my nerves; as was his extreme mistrust of Phil Coulson, even though said man has repeatedly made it clear that I wasn't going to be harmed whenever I was under his watchful gaze. And while I don't hate her company in the slightest, I'm pretty sure that Chantè has better things to do than babysit me all day!

..Okay, so maybe I'm getting pissed off about this, but can you freaking blame me?!

While I was internally seething away, from the corner of my eyes I saw Greer lean closer against Hank. "Who's this Chantè girl?" She whispered into his ear.

"Chantè is sort of a bodyguard of King T'Challa's," He whispered back, "When Briar started dating him, Chantè then more-or-less became her bodyguard, too." Greer gave him an odd look before turning to give me a look of almost pity. Hawkeye—who must've heard their conversation—chose that moment to interject.

" _She's also got some incredible sass to her chops,_ " He chimed in, " _When T'Challa called to say '_ go fetch!' _she told him—quite loudly and pointedly—that she's not a bloodhound, and that you could survive without her for one day._ "

…

" _Should I add that I had to clean up the language in a few parts? I'm pretty sure she added a few Wakandan curses in there._ "

…Trust Chantè to have my back, no matter what her king says.

The anger inside of me was beginning to slowly fade away, but I didn't trust myself to talk just yet—in case I said something about someone that I may end up completely regretting later—so I handed my card over to Phil and ran a tired hand over my face.

I know within my heart that T'Challa means well, but holy damn, can he go overboard!

By the time I managed to calm down enough that I wasn't going to spit fire, Phil had wrapped up the conversation with Hawkeye and disconnected the call before handing my card back to me.

"Was there anything important that I should know about?" I asked wearily.

"Not really," Phil replied honestly, "After Chantè had…words with T'Challa your brother then called and asked that he and Captain America help him move all of the Iron Man armors from Stark Industries to Avengers Mansion. But Chantè did contact Hawkeye an hour ago, asking that a message be passed on to you."

"Uh-huh?"

"She said that it's your shout for dinner, and she wants pizza," He relayed with a completely straight face, "Come to think of it, I could do for pizza, too."

…

By the time I had finished laughing helplessly at it all, it was about getting to the time that Phil and I should be leaving and getting dinner. I offered Hank and Greer to join us, but they had other plans—mostly more paperwork filing and quite possibly getting Chinese take-out. Leaving the pair of them to it, Phil and I made the trek back to his car, this journey a lot easier now that I wasn't loaded down with boxes.

"So where are we going to?" Phil inquired as we got in and buckled up, "I hope it's not too far—I do have work tomorrow."

"Oh, hardy ha-ha," I mockingly laughed before breaking into a real smile, "Seriously though, there's only one place in the entirety of New York City that Chantè will eat pizza and not complain about it—mostly because there are more 'organically conscious', whatever that means."

"Phil gained a thoughtful look on his face. "I think I know which pizzeria you're talking about," He said as he pulled into traffic, "They're more geared towards people that have food allergies, or are really picky about what they eat."

"That's about the gist of it,"

"Isn't it also a few blocks away from your brother's work?"

…now, why does that seem a little suspicious? And as it turned out, I was right about being suspicious, but not for the reasons I had originally thought for.

"I now have to watch over the king," She grumpily announced as Phil and I joiner her and Clint at the table. My poor younger friend looked so down in the dumps that Clint began to pat her shoulder, his face molded with pity.

"Ouch," Phil winced, "Was it because you wouldn't 'go fetch!' as Clint put it?" I'm guessing it wasn't the _exact_ words she used, but she didn't exactly disagree with them either.

"Mostly," She mumbled, "I might have also torn into him about what happened this morning between him and Briar," I raised my eyebrow at her in surprise. How on Earth did she…oh, wait, never mind. This is the Dora Milaje I'm thinking about. Of course they'd know about what their king gets up to…that's kinda embarrassing: also really unnerving, but still mostly embarrassing.

Hang on… _please tell me she didn't tell Clint!_

"I almost thought she'd light into me, too," Clint took over when I looked at him apprehensively, "She—plus a few of her friends—looked pretty offended when I told them what T'Challa did."

…brain's dead.

"Come again?" Phil asked for me, and probably wondering how the purple archer was involved.

"When they got to the Mansion this morning, and after Starky disappeared into her lab, T'Challa coughed up what he did. And trust me; Chantè wasn't the first to rip into him." Clint explained with a nonchalant shrug.

My brain slowly began working again as Clint related as to how he knew about what had occurred. "And you're not going to tease me about it?" I weakly asked him, wary about the possible answer.

"Hell to the fuck no," He answered emphatically with matching hard glare, "I reminded T'Challa that while he may be a king and your boyfriend, I'm your sort-of-brother, and that beats out anything else."

"And then?" I drawled cautiously.

"After Hulk finally decided to let us know about where you went, he got in touch with his Amazons." Despite her grumpy mood, Chantè gave a badly muffled snort of laughter at the nickname, while the rest of us just smiled.

"Once he got in touch with the ladies, it somehow got mentioned what had happened, and while the other girls settled for disapproving looks, Chantè was the only one to go a step further." Clint carried on with his narrative, "And I've gotta admit that great minds think alike…or, sometimes, very scarily similar."

"And what is it that you both said that was scarily similar?" I asked the both of them. Absently, I noticed that four glasses of sparkling water and a basket of garlic bread pieces had been placed on our table.

"That the king should have waited—at the bare minimum—a few weeks before surprising you like that," Chantè shrugged as she reached for her glass, "You have just moved in together, after all, so that is quite the giant step in any relationship, let alone with a royal personage." There was a look on her face that Clint didn't have, suggesting that Chantè wanted to add more to the conversation, though I could pretty much guess for myself about what it was she wanted to say.

My very strong guess is that she had wanted to say that I'm still very shy. Not so shy that it'd take a nuclear-powered sledge-hammer to try and make a possible dent in my walls, but definitely not so bold as to take advantage of a towel-clad beef cake heartthrob of a boyfriend. Ugh, it really stinks to be me.

"We heard that," All three of my friends admonished, pulling me quite abruptly out of my thoughts.

"There's nothing wrong with being shy, Briar," Chantè gently informed me, "No one expects you to be some sort of brazen fire-cracker just because you have a boyfriend."

"Or because you're Tony Stark's sister," Phil added, "Believe me, I'd much rather deal with a shy Stark than have to deal with a female version of Tony." Clint didn't verbally respond, but Phil's commented on a female Tony made my poor sort-of-brother shudder in revulsion at the disturbing thought, which did make me genuinely laugh and feel better.

My brother does (or did) tend to leave a pretty wide swathe in the social world, especially with his old party boy ways. And some of the after-party stories that I get wind of (and a few others that I _definitely_ shouldn't know about at all) do make one question how someone so quiet, polite and sensible could even possibly be related to Tony Stark.

And yes, I am ignoring the loud hysterical laughter coming from my inner voice right now.

"I guess there's no real harm in being just me, then," I finally admitted with a smile, "Especially if it means not being anything like Party Boy Tony."

"Hear, hear!" My friends toasted in agreement, making me laugh. Once that particular topic was well and truly covered to within an inch of its existence, we moved onto other subjects, though we somehow ended up onto Chantè. Mostly because of the news she just dropped on us.

"You're heading back to Wakanda?" I repeated in dismay, "This weekend?"

"For a few weeks, yes," She nodded unhappily. That totally sucks!

"Not for what you said to T'Challa, I hope," Clint said. That would completely suck!

"No; it's for additional Dora Milaje training, and the Selection," She answered honestly. That…she said what now?

The confused looks on all our faces must have reminded Chantè that no one in the entire world—not even the Avengers or SHIELD—outside of the Dora Milaje themselves know what really goes on within the Wakandan borders, let alone their internal ranks. But unlike other Wakandans, Chantè had no problem in letting her very closest non-Wakandan friend in on the details, as it happens, and if two other people should happen to hear the same information…well then.

"Basically, those of us who are still Acolytes are given additional training in areas we are thought to need. And those who are deemed ready, they are given a sort of 'final exam', to see if we are truly fit to guard the king alongside the more senior warriors."

"Sounds pretty intense," Phil commented, his face slightly betraying any internal worry he might have been feeling.

"Not as much as the Selection," She pointed out in an almost off-handed tone, "That is when the young novitiates chosen to represent their tribes are put through mental and physical challenges, similar to any event one might expect when defending the royal line."

…I'm gonna be honest with myself and say that I'm really afraid to find out just what _that_ entails.

"Oh! That reminds me, Briar," Chantè suddenly perked up, "I have been asked by the head Dora if you would wish to join us, even if it's only for a week."

* _Hrgk-ck!_ *

No, that wasn't the sound of me having a food-related conniption. That was the sound of me just narrowly avoiding a choking fit…although I was now left with garlic-bread-and-sparkling-water-filled chipmunk cheeks. At least the others got a laugh out of my expense.

"Do no worry, my friend. We are not going to put you through what we do," Chantè promised as I slowly began to swallow, "Mostly we need you there so that the advancing Acolytes can get used to your presence, since you and the king are dating."

Well…that did make some sense, partly. It did kinda send out the silent message that the more senior Dora expected me to be with the Black Panther for a long while yet, if they wanted the new girls to get used to my presence. Wait—is that a good thing or a bad thing?

' _There's also a sort-of upside to this invitation, you know,_ ' my inner voice pointed out, ' _You can visit Zuberi and his pride, like you promised._ ' Ah, crap. While that was a good idea, I wasn't going to lie about not feeling a cold weight settling on the bottom of my stomach.

My major problem was that I no longer had the magi-staff: my only means of communication with animals. If I don't have it anymore, does that mean I might lose some friends? True, I could have T'Challa to translate for me, but he can't always be there to do so when he's got a kingdom to run. Maybe I could find my own way of communicating with my animal friends? After all, I could talk to Voltaire and not need the staff. Then again he has human-like intelligence…eh, I guess I'll know once and for all when I get there and find out for myself.

The decision made, I told Chantè that I'd love to come to Wakanda with her. If anything, some alone time away might do my mind some good, and maybe just some girl time too. One might argue that I could have girl time here in America, but that would then mean having to put up with Jan and her whinging about Hank.

…that reminds me.

"By the way, Clint," I started once there was a lull in the conversation, "I have a bone to pick with you."

"Uh-oh~," Chantè smirked in a sing-song voice, looking to the archer. At the tone of my voice, Clint looked rather scared about where this was going to go—his gaze flickered over to meet Phil's, but probably wasn't reassured that even the senior agent looked confused. Having a lot of fun in watching him squirm in fear, I carefully kept my poker face as neutral as possible while I leaned forwards against the table. Out of instinct—or maybe even self-preservation—Clit leaned back, and even began to sweat a little.

"When you told me about Hank's new assistant, you didn't mention that she was so breath-takingly beautiful as to make people speechless," I scolded in such a deadpanned voice, and with such a straight face, that it took Clint a good while longer than usual to come up with some sort of response.

In fact, it wasn't until Phil started snickering, and the not-quite-so-innocent Mona Lisa-like smile I was now giving him, that Clint finally pegged that I was pulling his leg…sort of.

He looked at me with a dead-panned expression. "You mean little brat, Starky." We all lost it at that point and just _howled_.

"But seriously, she's insanely beautiful," I said once we got over our laughter.

"Is she really?" Chantè questioned, looking between the three of us.

"I was staring at her," I reported, "As in mouth wide open, full on staring."

"Trust me, you weren't the first person to do that, and you probably won't be the last one." Clint promised me.

"But I feel so bad about it!" I whined lightly.

"I know, Starky, I know," My sort-of brother assured me, "But seeing as even the Hulk stared at her? I'm pretty sure she's okay with people staring at her." Funny, but somehow that didn't make me feel any better about it all. If anything, it made me feel a hell of a lot worse about the situation.

Chantè looked as though she couldn't quite believe that someone could elicit such a response from others, but when I told her about Greer having beautiful tiger-skin, she started to look a little less sure on her position. Actually, she looked rather thoughtful and curious. Before I could think too much about it, our food was delivered, and I realized how hungry I really was. And I didn't need my stomach to growl at me to emphasize the point.

Putting aside the current conversation, we moved onto the pizza itself as we ate. For me, it was rather delicious, since it didn't have that icky greasy, oily taste to it. It was obvious why Chantè liked this place so much, despite its proximity to my brother's workplace.

Glancing up from my third slice, I paused. I couldn't tell if it was a trick of the light, my eyes or something else, but I could have sworn that the lights in Stark Tower just—ah, never mind. It wasn't a trick; all the lights did just go out. Hang on, what now?

"Uh, guys?" I spoke slowly, getting my friend's attention. "Stark Industries just went dark." Clint gave me a confused look, even with a mouthful of pizza, while Chantè and Phil automatically looked to what had grabbed my attention.

"That's odd," Phil commented in an off-handed way, "I wonder if there's a power outage there."

"I don't think so," I replied, my mind going over details only I could see. "Stark Industries is self-sufficient with its ARC Reactor, but it also has back-up generators that kick in automatically." Yet they haven't, so that makes me even more concerned.

"And since the tower's still dark…" Clint trailed off, thinking the same thing I was. "I smell trouble." Chantè looked at him sharply before reaching up and touched her ear; probably checking up on T'Challa. Since he was inside Stark Tower, he'd have a better outlook on what was going on over there.

Only there seemed to be no update, or any sort of word, if that uncomfortable look on her face was any indication. "I cannot reach the king," She explained, causing a surge of worry to rise inside of me, even as my rational part reassured me that T'Challa was very capable of looking after himself if there's a fight. But that doesn't change the fact that someone I love might be in danger.

…and yes, I'm more than well enough aware that it's the pot calling the kettle black, so hush!

Something must have shown on my face—Clint reached into his jean pocket and pulled his Avengers card and attempted to reach either T'Challa, Steve or even my brother, but he wasn't having any better luck than Chantè did.

Okay, maybe I should be starting to worry. As far as I knew, the Avengers card has an internal power source: therefore it shouldn't have been affected by a power outage. So that could only mean that an external force had blocked communications from Stark Industries to the outside.

The unavoidable conclusion is that someone is doing something illegal at Stark Industries.

"I get the feeling that we may need to head over there," I told my friends.

"Same here," Clint agreed, and Chantè nodded. Phil began to say something but a trilling chime from his jacket pocket interrupted him, and made him reach for his mobile. The caller ID made him pull an unhappy face.

"It's SHIELD," He informed the rest of us before answering his phone. Since it was rude to listen in on other people's conversation, I turned my attention away to think of a plan in case we come across any trouble at Stark Tower.

Admittedly, I was a little put out that Clint wasn't in his Hawkeye persona—his bow and arrow might be needed—but I'll just made do. Besides, it wasn't like Clint didn't have any other skill to fall back onto. I didn't have to worry about Chantè didn't have to worry about too much, or at all, because she was training to be a veritable weapon herself.

And for once, I had my armor and gloves on! True, I didn't have any protective head-wear, but at least I had my other armor!

I had just laid out a rough image of the grounds—using various condiments on our table—when Phil ended his call and looked at the rest of us with an uncomfortable look on his face.

"Bad?" Clint was the first to inquire. It would make sense that he would be the better judge—having worked for SHIELD and all before joining the Avengers.

"Maybe," Phil grumbled, "Wu just told me that he can't raise Hill."

"And that's your problem why?" I drawled out.

"Because I'm the only agent closest to her last known location," He replied around a wince. Why is he…oh, no, don't tell me.

"Please tell me she's not where I think she is." I began to whine, but the apologetic look on Phil's face gave me the answer I was dreading the most: as did the glance towards Stark Industries. "Great, now we have to rescue Director Grumpy-Pants, too."

"No one said being a good person was ever easy," Chantè intoned sympathetically. My response was to lean my arms on the table top and dropped my head on top with a loud groan of dismay. All I got back was a pity pat on the top of my head from somebody.

"Oh, fine! We'll rescue Hill as well. But I want it noted that I do so under great reluctance!"

~.~.~.~.~

"I can't believe I'm doing this. This is completely against my code."

"Briar, I understand your discomfort with rescuing someone you dislike, but -."

"I'm not talking about Hill. I'm talking about catching up to T'Challa later on, and my breath stinks of garlic!"

"Oh…that. Well, in that case, it is your own fault for scarfing down the last few pieces of garlic bread."

"No one else wanted them, so it would have been a waste of food, and Clint already ate my last slice of pizza."

"You are unbelievable, sometimes. In that case, you and you offensive breath can go take care of those AIM drones in that truck." As you can tell, Chantè can be just all heart sometimes. As for the AIM drones, well…

Going back half an hour or so, after I roughly outlined a recon plan, the four of us loaded up into Phil's car and made our way to Stark Industries. Phil parked the car a block away and out of sight, so we snuck the rest of the way, or as Clint likes to call it—skulking.

Skulking our way closer, I spotted four vans parked at the corners of the building. Normally, I'd have deemed that as ' _something to worry about later_ ', but when the back door opened and an AIM goon popped out? Yeah, it became a ' _worry about now!_ ' thing, and gave a pretty clear indication about who was attacking Stark Tower.

And just how'd they go about it, too.

Given the lack of communication from Stark Tower, and the four vans arranged the way they were, I'd say that AIM had employed a jamming device that is enforced by the electromagnetic daisy chain effect, which loops back to the primary device in order to boost the signal over a wider area; case in point, a whole tower.

…yeah, Clint just gave me a blank look for that explanation.

To simply everything, I told him that we'd need to take out the primary device, which meant we had to find out which of the four vans it was.

"If I could make a suggestion," Phil offered up, "How about we get rid of the AIM drones first? That way Briar can disarm the jamming device without people shooting at her."

So that led us into the Now; after taking down the occupants of the first van (but it wasn't the van we were looking for…damn Star Wars puns) the four of us split into teams of two—Chantè with me, Clint with Phil—and each team took the vans on opposite sides of the building.

And thanks to Chantè, I get to deal with this lot on my own. I mean, just because my breath stinks like garlic… _Whoa, boy!_ Okay, on second thought, maybe she has a point!

Focusing on my task, I stealthily ran over to the side of the van. Since there wasn't an easy way for me to tell if there was anybody inside, and if there were weapons involved, I had to be careful.

' _Or I could do something really stupid, and just open the doors and face them head on, since the vibranium armor will repel the bolts.'_

…

"Out of curiosity, do you have a little voice inside your head, telling you if what you are about to do is a bad idea?" Chantè questioned as she walked over, avoiding the two unconscious goons I had dropped on the ground.

"I do, actually," I remarked pleasantly, "But it doesn't do a very good job at warning me." Chantè didn't say anything, even though I know she was dying to say something. Okay, so it was a big risk just opening the doors like that. But the two goons inside weren't expecting it, which gave me a head start to throw a punch at the closest one, and a kick to the head took care of the second guy before he could scramble for his weapon.

"Besides, it's not like I pulled their helmets off and breathed on them." I protested.

"I guess that is true," She grudgingly accepted as she rummaged around in the back of the van. I almost asked her what she was doing when she exclaimed happily, and came back out holding a large roll of black duct tape in her hands like a trophy.

"Duct tape, the answer to life's little problems." She declared triumphantly. I couldn't help myself and laughed as we taped the goon's hands and feet together before tapping them back to back.

"Maybe I should start carrying a utility belt, and have duct tape as one of my supplies," I joked as we carefully approached the final van.

"If you do, I promise to keep quiet about your earlier moment of misplaced insanity," She threw back. Now that idea seemed very tempting.

We came to the corner and tentatively peeked around the edge of the building. "Aw, guys!" I playfully whined at Clint and Phil.

"You snooze, you lose, sweetheart," Clint teased back and looking quite smug, even as he sat on the backs of the last three AIM drones as Phil slipped a pair of zip-tie cuffs on the final body. Not to feel left out, Chantè wandered over with the roll of duct tape, much to mine and Clint's amusement. Suffice to say, those three bad guys weren't going anywhere once Chantè finished duct-taping them together.

"Well, since that's the last on the bad guys out here, I guess it's time to do something about the jamming device?" I asked everyone. With mutual agreement, I pulled myself into the back of the last van and knelt in front of the device. It was fairly big, and looked fairly complicated.

"So are you able to disarm it?" Phil asked from outside.

 _Beep, beep, beep-beep~!_

"Done," I called back as I crawled over to the doors, "They based some of it on Stark Industries tech, and it was easy to figure out the rest of it."

"Sounds rather ominous," Chantè commented warily, watching as Phil and Clint helped to hand me out of the van. I was about to reply on how AIM weren't really all that smart to begin with (says the child genius) when a noise from the sky caught all our attentions.

"It's one of AIM's bubble ship thingies!" Clint warned. The only cover we had, and could get into before being busted, was the van behind us. Since needs must, but tossing the unconscious bodies didn't leave much room for the rest of us, though with some tight squeezing we managed.

"That is what they use to fly? It's hideous," Chantè scoffed in disgust, "How do they manage to steer that thing?"

"Don't know, and don't care," I told her, trying to ignore the fact that Clint's knee was digging into my side. We all became quiet as we watched the lone AIM air-ship came to land in front of the entrance to Stark Industries.

"Do you think-."

* _THUNK!_ * "Fuck! Clint!" Fighting the AIM goons, I didn't get a single bruise on my head, let alone any serious damage. I hide in a van with Clint, and I bump my head on the back window—thanks for that, you jerk butt.

"Sorry, Starky," He apologized even as he tried not to laugh, "But I was gonna say, do you think we could sneak over and take him out?"

"It would certainly hinder any AIM forces that are wanting to leave," Chantè mused out loud.

"And it'll give us the opening to call in for back-up, if the others inside should need it." Phil added helpfully.

"All I care about is not having someone's knee in my side, or banging my head anymore. Let's do this."

It didn't take us that long to sneak over to the air-craft, take out the single pilot and 'hold the exit', as it were. Chantè seemed quite intrigued by the interior of the craft, with Clint at her side—probably pointing out the flaws in AIM's designs. Phil and I stood guard outside, smiling at their complaints and commentaries. As if an afterthought, Phil reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a tin of breath mints.

"Found them in my glove box while getting the cuffs," He explained, sheepish at being a little late. Well, if it gets rid of my garlic breath, I'll forgive.

Not even three minutes passed when a cry of alarm, plus a feminine voice calling out my name, caught our attentions. Admittedly, there was a bit of satisfaction in hearing the last few AIM drones and the Supreme Scientist lament that their only means of escape was gone, but that was squashed by fear when I saw that the head scientist had Pepper Potts by her arm, clearly intended to be a hostage.

Call it divine intervention—or even sheer blind luck—but following close behind AIM was my brother in a brand new armor, the Black Panther and Captain America, plus Director Hill and…and the War Machine armor? What gives? My thoughts were pulled into focus when Cap and Panther leapt forward and took down the very last of the AIM drones while Iron Man and the War Machine armor hovered above our heads.

"What now, smart guy?" Clint taunted the Supreme Scientist—the only one left standing—as the fool tried to keep us all in his sight. In a completely and decidedly rookie move, the idiot tried to threaten Pepper's life, but she quickly (and easily) taught him that while she is a lady and won't start a fight, but by Heavens she will end it!

"So I take it that you've been busy?" I cheekily quipped to my brother as I walked over to him and Pepper, the poor woman leaning heavily against his chest. "Nice armor, by the way."

"Thanks; it's the new Mark IX armor," He explained as his face-plate lifted away, revealing his cheeky grin. "So, what about yourself? Busy?"

"Meh, I can't complain," I shrugged as I ran my hand through my hair, and very much aware of a certain somebody staring at me. I wasn't as mad at T'Challa as I was earlier this afternoon, but I was still pretty damn miffed at him. Plus, I wasn't sure if the mint had gotten rid of my garlic breath yet, so I wasn't going to torture him with it…maybe. Depends on how evil I'm feeling later.

"Are you gonna be okay, Peppy?" I asked her softly, using an old nickname that Tony tried to use, but I was the only person in the world allowed to call her that.

Despite looking a little pale, Pepper opened an eye and gave me a little smile. "I'll be all right," She quietly replied, "I'm holding your brother to his promise of a bigger bonus." Exchanging a knowing look with my brother, I had a very strong feeling that not only would she be getting said bigger bonus, but an additional something else (namely a pretty gift) for the next three months, at the minimum.

"By the way, someone is looking your way," Toy smirked at something over my head, "You're not gonna show your overgrown kitty some lovin'?"

I rolled my eyes at my brother. "Not yet. To be honest, he's put himself in the dog house today," I explained, "So if I can make him squirm, then yay for me." I almost grinned when both Tony and Pepper looked at me in surprise, my brother even looking a little apprehensive.

"Really, what did he do?" he inquired, going into his 'big brother must protect little sister' mode.

"Don't worry, it's nothing we can't sort out later," I promised him, "I'll just make him worry about it for a while, then we'll talk about it." And depending on the outcome, he may get to sleep in the bed as opposed to the couch.

I spent a few more minutes speaking to Pepper and my brother, mostly to make sure that Pepper really was going to be okay. When I mentioned that I had garlic bread earlier, Peppy—bless her!—reached into her skirt pocket and held out a tin of mints, the powerful sort.

I gave her a grateful smile as I took a few mints; I then popped one in my mouth ( _minty!_ That stuff is _MINTY!_ ) I turned to the War Machine armor, and peered at it speculatively.

"So who'd you get to pilot the War Machine?" I asked my brother over my shoulder, "Cos I know Rhodey can be a little protective of his baby, protest as he might." Instead of Tony giving me an answer, the face plate of the dark grey armor pulled back, revealing the pilot to be none other than Colonel James Rhodes himself!

"Holy crap: Rhodey!" I cried happily, throwing my arms around his metal chest. He chuckle and carefully wrapped his arms around me and patted my shoulder.

"Good to see you too, baby doll," He greeted cheerfully. With the usual conversation greetings out of the way, I gave into the undeniable urge to razz up my other older sort-of brother figure.

"Didn't you make a huge song and dance about never getting into the armor again?" I teased him playfully as I took a step back, scrutinizing him up and down.

To my amusement, Rhodey rolled his eyes at my exaggeration before smiling down at me. "Laugh while you can." He playfully warned me, "Once I'm out of this tin-suit, I fully intend to tick to my word…and make Tony pay for getting me back into this thing, just to save his butt.

Laughing as Tony pulled a face at his best friend, the conversation turned to tonight's unusual activities. "I didn't think AIM was so bold as to take a whole building hostage." I remarked.

"They weren't holding us hostage," Pepper corrected, "They were trying to steal all of Stark Industries data."

"And my armor," Tony added, "They also tried to blow up the ARC Reactor, amongst other distractions." For some reason, the hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle unpleasantly at the rather ominous way Tony said that. Not to mention the exchange of looks between my brother, Rhodey and Peppy, making me worry just that little bit more.

Before I could question them about it, they changed the topic again—this time about the clean-up of AIM's mess in Stark Industries. Overhearing this, Phil and Director Hill came over, the former promising to oversee the whole thing, right up to making sure that all the bad guys were locked away in Prison 42.

"Well, at least it's just AIM, and not anything icky." I lightly laughed, noting that Director Hill shuddered.

"Good thing that Technovore is destroyed now," She added. And that's when all hell broke loose.

* * *

"Dammit, Hill!", "SHUT UP!", "Briar?!"

It was impossible to accurately tell whose cry was the loudest, but it none the less caught the attention of the other Avengers, in particular the Black Panther. Turning sharply, he noticed that Clint Barton had almost launched himself at Director Hill, even as Agent Coulson clamped his hand tightly against her mouth. Both Colonel Rhodes and Pepper Potts had begun their attempts of minimizing whatever damage had just occurred.

Tony Stark, however, played a far more crucial role in keeping a now non-responsive Briar Rose close to his side, the poor girl's face completely blank as she leaned her back against her brother's armored chest, his arms encircling her body in a protective embrace.

"Briar, what is wrong?!" From by his side, Chantè entered into what T'Challa had privately described as her 'must protect my friend' mode and ran to her side, fretting over the slightly older girl.

"What the Hell just happened?" Captain America demanded as he and the Black Panther approached.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing!" Clint immediately barked back at them, "Just nothing!" It didn't help his case when both he and Coulson physically pulled Director Hill a ways from the others and began talking to her in angry whispered tones.

Turning away from them, T'Challa focused on his lady love, noting that she didn't even seem to be aware of the rest of the world around her, otherwise she would have fended off the fretting of both Pepper and Chantè with great exasperation. Eventually, Tony gently dismissed the ladies and led his sister away for some privacy, even holding T'Challa off with a stern look. Apprehensively waiting for the siblings, T'Challa honored their need for privacy, though his heart ached to hold his beloved to his heart and comfort her, to ease her distress.

The Black Panther could only watch as Tony turned his sister by her shoulder to face him, placing a hand under her chin to tilt her head up. His words to her were quiet, but emphatic, and to whatever point he was trying to get across to her. Briar stared at him for a long time—long enough for T'Challa to think about disregarding Tony's request for privacy—when Briar finally showed signs of life, and whispered something to her brother. Whatever the question was, Tony just smiled and nodded.

T'Challa felt his heart, his soul, his entire body lurch uncomfortably as Briar then stumbled a few steps away and nearly doubled over at her waist, bracing her hands against her knees as she began to breathe deeply and evenly—an exercise she often used to help calm an anxiety attack.

His own anxiousness getting the better of him, T'Challa was seconds away from running to Briar's side and whisking her away to safety when she slowly began to straighten up. Because she now faced away from the others, no one knew of her request to be taken away.

"Panther," Tony called out as he turned to his comrade in arms, "I'm gonna take my sis home." Not even waiting for an answer, Iron Man carefully his sister into his arms and took to the skies. His inside eating away at him, T'Challa could barely wait for Chantè to catch up with his strides, so eager to get to his beloved's side. All the while, a question swirled within his mind like a dark fog.

'What was sad to numb Rose like this?'

* * *

All righty, then! That's the end of this chapter, and boy, was it draining? And what do you guys think of the new character? Let me know in a review, but no flames! Otherwise you'll have to deal with the Hulk, and Deadpool, whenever he shows up again.

Later, guys!


	3. Interlude V

Hello, everyone! I am so sorry this took so long to come out-especially for such a small chapter-but my laptop pooped itself silly, and it had to be taken apart and parts replaced. But good news is, it works better now! Plus, you guys have the ever lovely and awesome Vanessa Masters to thank for booting me in the cyber ass (as it were) to get this out.

Now then, enough waffling from me. Enjoy!

* * *

Interlude V

I hadn't passed out, that much I can be sure of, despite my almost non-responsiveness at the present time. But seriously, how else does one react any differently after having such a bombshell be dropped onto their laps? A 200 pound mechanical parasitic bombshell, to be exact.

"Are you doing okay, sis?" I didn't lift my head to look at Tony—not because I was still trapped in my little stupor, but mostly because I had finally gotten comfy in my position. As a bonus of our brother-sister bond, Tony didn't need me to verbally answer that while I wasn't completely okay, I was slowly but certainly getting there.

I didn't so much as bat an eye when Mr Foxworthy draped a warm blanket over my body—though I did murmur my thanks—or when Salem reached over and gently pawed at my arm. I didn't even flinch when Voltaire lifted his head and gave me a tiny lick on my cheek before his head returned to down beside our out stretched legs.

Now, somebody may be asking 'what in the name in holy moly happened?!', or the even keener minded would bravely ask 'Why did Technovore send everyone into panic stations?', and the answer is both simple yet terrifying. I created Technovore, and it almost destroyed my entire world.

…well, okay, technically I didn't "create" create it, but I did have somewhat of a hand in its creation. My friends and brother would strongly disagree about that, but Fury was the only one not to sugar-coat it all and say 'Yes, yes you did'…blunt, isn't he? But he was right—all I did was draw out a very rough design for Technovore, and write some theoretical coding. Its ultimate creator was somebody else.

Known only to my older brother, Pepper, Rhodey and Fury—plus a very select few SHIELD agents—about four weeks before I was shown how dangerous and deranged Hammer truly was, I had tentatively approached my brother about creating a means of keeping Stark Industries safe; namely a computer virus that would reside in the data-banks and attack any outside malware, as used by hackers, thereby preventing any of my brother's work from ending up in the very wrong hands of the world.

I have to be honest at this point, and admit that I hadn't been all that confident about it myself, so I was pretty relieved when Tony gently vetoed the idea completely. Unfortunately, I sadly realized too late that that was the turning point in my sort-of-relationship with Justin Hammer, and everyone who knows me personally knows how that ended.

Before I had painfully learnt how truly evil he was, I had just thought that for the few weeks after my presentation, Justin was a little grumpy at me for not fighting hard enough for my newest idea, to bring it to life—as it were. What I didn't know was that during those four weeks, Hammer had stolen my work and gone a step further…way further, into the realms of insanity, and created a monstrosity that became the bane of my nightmares for months afterwards. That is, when I wasn't having night terrors about my torture, of course.

Poor Alenka had a hard job after it all happened, acting as my emergency therapist when no other help was at hand, and getting me through those events. I'm pretty sure that I didn't make it all that easy on her. Inadvertently, but still.

Anyway; before Hammer had me trapped and began the however long torture, he first lured me to some address amongst some non-descriptive buildings—on the pretense of wanting to make up for his taciturn behavior that past few weeks. I had blindly agreed, and showed up…once those doors had slammed shut behind me with that ominous bang did Hammer's mask drop away, and the real 'thing' revealed itself.

Grabbing my wrist hard enough to leave very deep bruises and everything beneath his hand, Hammer showed me the 'pet project' he'd been working so hard on: a nanotech artificial intelligence, taking the form of a monstrously giant red mechanical work-like body. I still remember how terrified I had felt in that moment, when I was confronted by it. Then Hammer released the thing from its containment unit, and ordered it to destroy Stark Industries entire data banks.

His ultimate plan was that while everyone was busy dealing with 'Technovore'—as he named it—there wouldn't be anyone left to search for me. During which time he could torture me in any hideous way possible, utterly disfiguring me until the point where I was no longer recognizable, and broken beyond all hopes.

Just destroyed beyond belief before being delivered back to my brother, and then as Tony helped me recover, Hammer would use Technovore to destroy Tony's life-works.

There were only two problems with that plan—both proving to be fatal. First was Hammer himself, and his limited intelligence. If he had of been 'smart' and not 'psychotic egomaniac', he would've done more work to the data coding. Technovore was meant to exist in cyberspace, not the open world. As is stood, not even five minutes after it was unleashed did Technovore go out of control and break free of its programming, and began to consume everything in its path—machinery, energy, data, what-have-you.

The second—and definitely more dangerous—flaw was Alenka becoming immediately aware that I was in extreme danger, and wisely brought Hawkeye and a few other SHIELD agents as back-up.

While the extra-dimensional, Amazon Princess-like warrior was busy saving and healing my ass, Iron Man and the rest of SHIELD had managed to subdue Technovore and imprison it in The Vault. It—like many other super-villains—had escaped when Loki orchestrated the mass breakout of all four SHIELD prisons. But because I became so busy with the Avengers and being swept off my feet by T'Challa, I didn't have a spare thought for Technovore or for any leftover fear that was left behind (and believe me, there was a lot!)

In fact it wasn't until Hill mentioned it earlier tonight that I even remembered that nightmare-inducing fiend…but I didn't feel any of the fear that it caused me in the past. Mind you, there was a reasonable explanation for that: after all I've been through these past six months, something like Technovore ranks pretty damn low on the ' _Things that scare the total crap outta me_ ' list. Maybe it's a sign of maturity?

So then, if I wasn't terrified of that monster going after Tony (he can deny it all he wants, but I know that's what AIM was doing) why was I so quiet like this? Well, how else does someone react when told that one of their chief sources of nightmare fuel was not only defeated, but so completely and utterly destroyed that there was a zero-zip-nada-snowflake-in-Hell chance of it ever coming back to bite me in the ass?

In that case, I believe I earned the right to be stunned and somewhat numbed for a little while. Tony had the same idea and took me back to my old room in Avengers Mansion, for a chance to process what had happened in a quiet environment.

He must have called ahead, because as Tony landed on the front lawn, Mr Foxworthy appeared from the front door and immediately took me into his care whilst dismissing Tony to change out of his armor. I was gently enclosed in a warm hug before being led upstairs to my bedroom, and the awaiting bath. Once there, I was given clear instructions to take my time when bathing before my old friend left me to it.

The bathroom door closed behind me, so with wooden movements I completely stripped and immersed myself into the warm water, feeling my muscles slowly begin to loosen up. With a contented sigh, I leaned back against the back of the tub, grabbing the nearby washcloth and drenched it in the water before draping it over my face and just unwound.

I lost track of time—I may have even fell asleep—when I heard a knock on the door, followed by the disembodied voice of my brother calling through the wood surface to ask if I was okay, or needed help. A small smile touched my lips as I dismissed his offer and began to properly wash myself.

Once cleaned up and dried off, I pulled on the bed clothes that had been left on the bathroom bench, combed my hair and pulled it up into a lopsided bun, and brushed my teeth. Oh, joy, no more garlic breath! The last of my bathroom rituals done, I walked out into my bedroom to find Tony stretched out on my bed, leaning back against the mountain of pillows. He was prepared for comfort, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, complete with TV remote in his hand.

"Disney marathon," He shrugged at my questioning look, "Your pick of alphabetical or chronological order." My brother really knows me all too well, especially when I needed to really chill out.

Curling up against his left side, his arm comfortably settled around my shoulders, we got through about three movies before the bedroom door opened, revealing Mr Foxworthy with a befuddled look on his face. The reason for the funny face was standing behind him, in the shape of Voltaire and Salem, and the little black cat was perched on the massive dog's head like a hat. Without prompting on anyone's part, Voltaire entered my room—briefly pausing to let Salem off before climbing onto the bed and curled up on my other side. Salem joined in the cuddle pile, choosing to lie on Tony's stomach but still within easy reach of me.

That's how we spent the rest of the evening, tucked in an atmosphere of cozy warmth and sibling love, doing an activity that we hadn't done together for what seemed like an eternity, though more probably not since Tony's misadventure in the desert; when he had the miniature ARC reactor embedded into his chest. The only difference this time around was that we were now joined by a larger-than-average dog and a normal-sized black cat. So we may end up being covered in animal hair by morning, but I can put up with it, because they did so with great love.

I lost track of time after that, though it wasn't until we were halfway through _The Little Mermaid_ that I remembered that I hadn't spoken to T'Challa all night, or even heard from him. Whoops!

Before I had the thought to call him and let him know about things, Tony beat me to it. "T'Challa's gonna give you a night alone." He spoke softly. I lifted and turned my head to look up at my brother, humming softly in sleepy confusion.

"While you were soaking in the tub earlier, I called and let him know you'd be spending the night here." Tony explained to my sleepy-self, "He wanted to come over and do his 'boyfriend duties', but my and that friend of yours—Chantè?—more or less convinced him into giving you some space."

Well, that was kind of them both…though I had a strongly suspicious feeling that Chantè would take ample opportunity to dig in the fact that my boyfriend was still in the dog house, because of his earlier actions. And to be perfectly honest, I was pretty much over it. But I did smile at Tony's perfect description of T'Challa's cluckiness.

"You two are something else, you know that?" I mused softly as I lowered my head, "The poor man must have sent Voltaire and Salem over to fill in for him, but he's gonna be all alone tonight."

"From what I saw, the two of you need a night apart." Tony remarked darkly, but left it there, much to my relief. When it comes to protecting his darling precious baby sister, Tony Stark has the infamously bad habit of shooting first before asking questions. It goes to the absolute extremes when my precious virtues were being threatened, by any means.

Privately, I just hope that Tony will let me handle this little tiff on my own, rather than get involved, otherwise it may get very, very messy.

* * *

I'm not entirely positive about how much longer after our conversation I lasted, but I guess I must have nodded off into a pretty deep sleep, because when I opened my eyes again, it was the middle of the day. I did have a moment of near fright when I realized that I was all alone and not in my bed at the embassy. But soon, the memories of yesterday came flooding back.

So you can imagine how disappointed I felt when I also realized that it wasn't my boyfriend's arm draped over my stomach, but rather just Salem.

At some point during my deep slumber, I had rolled away from my now absent brother and somehow curled into the small space between the bedhead and Voltaire's large body as he stretched out across the width of the bed, and Salem had draped himself over my rib cage. My pets—or at least Salem—must have been awake for a while, because as soon as he saw me awake he gave a meow of greeting. Duly alerted, Voltaire lifted his head to look at me and gave a soft grunting noise as a 'good morning'.

"Sorry, guys," I apologized sleepily as I slowly began to prop myself up on my elbow, wincing as several spots protested at my movements. "I didn't mean to sleep for so long." Seemingly unfazed (like every cat) Salem just sat on my rib cage and began to lick his paw and wash his face. He did protest when Voltaire heaved himself to his paws, shake his body (and cover the both of us in loosened dog fur) before getting down from my bed and stretching.

Finished with cleaning himself, Salem then leapt from my rib cage to the mattress beside me and began rubbing his face against my cheek, pressing his nose to my skin. I felt a hollow pang in my chest when it twigged that Salem was mimicking T'Challa when my boyfriend wanted me to wake up in the morning. He'd sit up, rub the sleep from his eyes, and watch me sleep for a while before leaning over me to press soft kisses to my cheeks, temple, anywhere on my face till I woke up.

"Thanks, Salem, that means a lot," I told him," But while you are a black cat, you are no T'Challa. You really can't top that man's morning kisses and hugs." Not all that fussed, Salem gave my face one last rub before walking to the edge of my bed and leapt onto Voltaire's back.

Taking the hint, I hauled myself to my feet and stumbled over to my bedroom door, opening it long enough for the two of them to leave before shutting it again. Now that I was awake, I might as well get on with the rest of my day—

*Sniff-sniff*…Phooo-eey!

—starting with a very much needed shower!

With an uncomfortable smell pervading my nose, I hot-footed it into my bathroom and scrubbed myself from head to toe, eager to get rid of Voltaire's and Salem's scent. Well, maybe not so much Salem's, but definitely Voltaire's! Once cleaned and smelling like exotic flowers, I turned my shower off and dried. It wasn't till I was towel drying my hair that I realized that I didn't bring a change of clothes with me. Dang it!

With a mild grumble, I clutched the towel to my front and stepped out of my bathroom, only to stop short at the sound of a strange gurgling/choking sound, but my view was blocked by my still damp hair. Pushing my hand through the dark locks, I gave a startled squeak as I backed against the closed bathroom door.

Well, crap. Standing in my room, with a small knapsack in his hand, was T'Challa. Now normally, the sight of seeing my boyfriend wearing dark denim jeans and a tight fitting shirt (that showed off his muscles to a very distracting degree) would have been more than enough to make me blush redder than a fire truck and stammer like a love-struck fool. But today, the wide-eyed look of surprise and shock on his face completely disarmed me.

I just stood there, plastered against the door with one arm clutching the towel to my body, as my breathing became that little bit faster as T'Challa's eyes slowly roamed over my damp body, his pupils darkening as he seemed to memorize everything he saw. I felt my skin begin to tingle under his gaze, and little bolts of electricity shot through my stomach and lower between my thighs. His mouth parted ever so slightly as he gave a deep masculine groan of longing, his muscles twitching underneath his shirt as he fought to restrain himself.

Hoo, boy, is it warm in here, or is it just me?

I gulped as his eyes lowered to my bare thighs and the towel (just barely!) covering my modesty, and only managed to bite back a soft whimper as he growled deeply under his breath, his eyes narrowing as the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Oh, Lord that tongue…

' _Say, out of curiosity, didn't the same thing happen yesterday, only with reversed roles?'_ My inner voice suddenly piped up, effectively snapping me out of my…state.

Before I could bring myself to speak, T'Challa's eyes—dark with golden desire and longing—snapped up and caught my own, with the action making my breath catch in my throat, and the heat of his gaze almost searing a path through my soul…and lower down my body. The tingly feeling increased when my own eyes darted over his body, and noticed that distinct….bulge in his pants.

And what was my eloquent response to all this?

"I, uh…I f-forgot my cloth-clothes." I finally stammered softly.

…well, it's certainly an improvement from yesterday, at least on my part…on T'Challa's, not so much.

His entire body seem to snap as his brain finally registered what he was seeing, and what he was doing. He quickly bit out an expletive (I think) in his native language as he snapped his head to the side to avert his eyes. In his distracted haste, he tossed the knapsack at my feet before turning and shooting out of my room like there was a Hell hound after him, the door slamming with much more force than was necessary.

…. _'I realize that we're probably gonna go to Hell for this, but I can't resist this opportunity!'_

But before I got the chance to do as my twisted, evil little mind said, there was a polite knock on my bedroom door, before it opened a crack and Chantè peeked her head around the corner. Her mouth was opening to ask a question when she saw what T'Challa did. Only her reaction was much better, mostly because now that the serious part was over, I was now struggling to contain my own laughter. In the end, that little twitch in her upper lip set the both of us off, and we just cackled with unbridled laughter.

I was still giggling when I opened the bathroom door, backed into the room behind me and using my foot to hook the knapsack strap to drag it with me before closing the door and getting dressed properly—though now the laughter was due to that every article of clothing inside resembled what was worn by Jane Lane in _Daria_. It was all too clear who was responsible for packing me a change of clothes.

I came back out, and both Chantè and I could barely speak beyond our giggling, especially as I reflected that the events of just a few short minutes ago and yesterday morning probably won't happen again for a long time yet.

We walked side by side down the hallway, with Chantè composing herself long enough to explain what happened after last night's activities. After Tony had whisked me away, T'Challa was pretty hell-bent on following after us, but he was quickly stopped by Clint and then shanghaied into standing guard over AIM until back-up from SHIELD arrived.

Once that happened, T'Challa tried once again to go after me, but both Clint and Phil caught him (again) and pretty much escorted him (or frog-marched) the king and his warrior back to the Wakandan Embassy. That's when and where they revealed my connection to Technovore, and how Justin Hammer tried to destroy the Stark's with it.

"I don't need to tell you how the king took that." She rounded up.

"By flying into his 'Captain Cluck DEF-CON 1 Battle Stations' mode, I take it?" I asked sarcastically. I smirked while Chantè gave a little snicker, but the both of us managed to keep our composure this time…barely.

"Pretty much, yes," She nodded, "Admittedly, I did feel a trifle of a pout that you did not tell us this before, but that lasted all of five seconds, maybe even less."

"Oh, really? Why's that?" I asked her.

"No one likes being vulnerable like that." She answered in a sagely tone…or what I call her 'maddeningly mysterious' voice. Still, at least her feelings weren't hurt all that much, but what about T'Challa's feelings? And yes, I am trying to ignore that bolt of electricity between my thighs, thank you very much.

When I broached the topic of his feelings with her, Chantè just gave me a look that clearly stated 'Don't ask', so I didn't. Besides, I can pretty much figure out that he didn't take things all that well.

You know, some days it just don't pay to stay sane, especially around that man.

Before I could wallow too deeply in my own mind, I felt Chantè wrap her arm around my shoulders and give me a bracing hug. I lifted my head to look at her, and was met by a pair of dark eyes that just glittered with wisdom.

"But whatever His Majesty's feelings—or whatever mine are—are not the important issue we have to address." She spoke, "What is really important is how _you_ feel about all of this." How I feel about this?

Well…I feel slightly numb. That's about the best I can come up with at the moment.

"I know what Hammer did to me—and what he tried to do to my brother—was horrible on so many levels, and something like this should mean something either positive or negative. But right now, I'm just…"

"Numb," Chantè finished for me and gave a little shrug, "Understandable; it has not quite sunk in just yet."

"That's the part the worries me the most." I admitted quietly, "What happens when it eventually does sink in, but I treat it as 'Oh, well, just another day in my Avengers career'? That kind of says how messed up I really am." Chantè raised her eyebrow at me, her expression just about unreadable.

"You will be fine," She finally nodded. Now it was my turn to give her an expression—one that says 'what are you raving about this time?' or that she may even be a little on the bat-poop-crazy side. "I am serious!" She protested mildly, "It is like that episode of _Daria_ —the one where that idiot football hero dies, and everyone goes the Daria for advice on how to cope with it?"

"The end of season 1—The Misery Chick," I informed unnecessarily.

"That is the one, yes! Anyway, when the cheerleader girl goes to Daria for advice, she gives herself the best advice, that feeling bad about not feeling worse is good."

…Astonishing. I have a psychiatrist, a boyfriend and a pair of brothers with their attempts of professional help, and the one thing that really made any sort of sense—and made me feel better—was a bit of dialogue from an old MTV cartoon show. Though, what Chantè said next really had me laughing.

"And if His Majesty has any issues with it, then he can go sulk—for all the good it will do!" She sassed playfully.

It may not pay to be sane some days, but at least on those days I have good company with a similar sense of madness.

* * *

And that's that for now! I'm already three-quarters of a ways through the next chapter, so it shouldn't be long till it's out...okay, it won't be as long as this boo-boo, so long as my laptop decides it wants to keep on living.

So, please leave your reviews, and remember that haters will have to deal with the Hulk. Bye for now!


	4. Author's Note!

Author's Note

Hey, everyone! I'm really sorry I haven't updated in ages, but there is a really good reason for that. Basically…Den done did a big stupid. Like, ridiculously big and stupid, even by my own standards. My own family, upon hearing this stupid, said 'Well, that's a stupid, isn't it?' And they're quite right.

To sum it up, I had just— _just_ —finished the next chapter, and was in the middle of typing it out to put on here, when on a whim I went back and read my first story. It was when I read a certain chapter that a sentence jumped out and smacked me on the forehead that I realized…I had conflicting information! I poked a hole in my own stories canon! How the hell does that happen?!

Whelp, apparently I found a way to do.

So, in order for this next chapter to make sense, I'm putting a temporary hiatus on this story as I go back and fix up the chapters of my first story, so that the history checks out…ok, and to fix up my spelling mistakes. I am my own worst grammar checker, sometimes, and it was really eating me up that I was making so many mistakes. Now I can go back and fix them up.

Hope you guys can forgive me for this; I am, like, the worst story-teller ever. I will readily admit that, and I also hope you'll keep an eye on me.

* * *

 **Update: 9/10/19**

So it turns out that there's no limit on my own stupidity. Well, not so much stupidity but really my ability to lose things.

Basically I was giving the house its Spring Clean (I live in a house with pets and a sister who gets a stuffy nose when the cats schmooze up to her face), and I somehow misplaced the USB that had all my stories on there. I mean, ALL of them.

So...yeah, this hiatus is gonna be a _little_ bit longer than I originally planned.

But it's not a total loss! I'm in the habit of writing my chapters onto paper, and editing on the computer, so there's that. And I still have the chapters here: as I write them onto my new USB, I can edit them as I go-since that was pretty much the plan for the hiatus in the first place.

I'm really sorry about this, guys, and I hope to have something out soon (ish), or if my sister is right about Murphy's Law, the damn thing will show up when I'm not looking for it...weird how that works out.

Again, sorry about the extended delay, but hopefully it all works out for us in the end. Wish me luck!


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